


long-term loss

by SittingRoundTheSamovar



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Amnesia, Family Fluff, Gen, Kink Meme, Kittens, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 33,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SittingRoundTheSamovar/pseuds/SittingRoundTheSamovar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratonhnhaké:ton's life has lately become rather complicated. Or at least he thinks it has. He's not entirely sure, since he can't remember most of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An edited version of the fill here: http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1795.html?thread=9469955#cmt9469955

He ran, head aching, feeling sick. His legs barely worked, and his ears rang. What had just happened?  
  
His foot caught on something, and he stumbled. He fell heavily, and a jolt of pain lanced through his ribs. One of them was probably broken. Musket shots rang out, though he could not tell how near or far they were. He heard footsteps, lots of them. Some were heavy, some were light, all were quick, and all were hurried. There were shouts in English, but he could not concentrate enough to translate.  
  
He picked himself up, clumsily, and staggered forward, fast as he could. He did not remember why he was running, only that he had to get away, and he barely had time to think before a hand shot out of the shadow in front of him, pulling him into the safety of a bush.   
  
"What have we here?" a voice sneered. All he could do was groan weakly in response, suddenly feeling the chill in the air that movement had kept away.  
  
Hands shook him roughly, and he found himself opening his eyes (when had they closed?) to see a scowling Colonist glaring down at him. His hair was greasy and his eyes cold and- to be frank- he smelt awful. His lips were pressed into an angry line.  
  
"Who… are you…?" He managed, weakly. The other man looked taken aback, but his face was starting to blur and everything was slowly spinning into darkness.   
  
"You don't recognise me?"   
  
The other man's words echoed around his head and he tumbled into a dreamless abyss.  
  


* * *

  
He woke up to dim dawn light filtering through a half-shuttered window. He was warm and comfortable, his headache barely noticeable.   
  
His clothes had been changed- instead of torn robes, he was clad simply in loose breeches and smalls. There were several bandages and dressings bound to his body, and he pressed a few of them experimentally. They hurt. So he had been injured somehow and taken to a doctor. This must be a safe place, with friends and allies, then. Who else would have him patched up?  
  
He sat up, slowly, trying to think. What exactly had happened before he had fallen unconscious?   
  
Try as he might, he could not remember anything except noise and pain and… well that was it. He sat up, slightly worried by this. Perhaps he had brain damage.  
  
He cast his mind further back, and still there was nothing. Well, not nothing, exactly. There were some images, some phrases, some snippets of memory. He remembered very vividly a woman, beautiful, leaning over him to kiss him goodnight when he was very small. He could hear an old man's tired voice: "Connor". He could remember the wind whispering and chilling him to the bone as he climbed a tree during a blizzard.   
  
The door creaked open, and he found he recognised the man entering.   
  
 _Father._  
  
Try as he might, he could not recall a name, simply that this man was (probably) his father, and that he was English.  
  
"Hello," he said, hesitantly. He was sure he  _could_  speak English, though he could not remember actually being taught it. It was time to see if his muddled memories were correct. The man's expression shifted, from faint worry to a hopeful smile.  
  
"Connor."   
  
"My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton," he said, automatically, and he realised that yes, that was correct. Connor was a nickname, though who gave it to him he was not sure.   
  
The man- no, his  _father_ \- sighed impatiently.   
  
"You know I can't pronounce that."  
  
"No, I do not. Who are you?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, pointedly.   
  
"I'm your father," he said, looking somewhat horrified. "Don't you remember?"  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton rolled his eyes. Was this man stupid or something?  
  
"Would I be asking if I did?"  
  
His father looked stricken.  
  
"You've lost your memory," he murmured.  
  
"It appears so."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton was not sure why he was being so curt towards his father. Habit, perhaps? He could not remember any previous conversations with this man, maybe they were usually on bad terms. He ought to fix that.  
  
"Oh, my son…" his father murmured, pity in his eyes. "Do you remember  _anything_?"  
  
"Bits and pieces," he replied, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable.   
  
His father raised an eyebrow, clearly wanting him to elaborate.   
  
"I remember being very young, living in a remote Mohawk village with my mother. Then things get… muddled. There are gaps, and they get larger and larger the closer to the present I try to remember," he said, after a moment of thought. "Does that make sense?"  
  
His father nodded.   
  
"Describe your most recent memory," he said.   
  
"Aiming at a stag with a bow and arrow," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, almost instantly. "I hit it in the eye. It died almost immediately. It was spring."  
  
"Do you remember your mother's death?" His father's eyes seemed cold and distant for a moment, and cold dread settled in Ratonhnhaké:ton's stomach.  
  
"Mother is dead?"   
  
His father looked sorrowful, in a stoic sort of way.   
  
"You were four," he said, quietly. "It's probably better you don't remember. It was very traumatic."  
  
"How?" His voice was barely a hoarse whisper.  
  
"There was a fire," his father began, then stopped.   
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton squeezed his eyes shut. She was dead and he could not remember that. He could barely remember  _her,_  full stop. What a terrible son he was.   
  
"…No," his father said, after a long moment. "Let's not speak of such sad things. We were testing your memory, weren't we?"  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, silently. His father looked deep in thought for a moment.   
  
"You know your name," he said. "What's mine?"  
  
"I do not remember."  
  
"Haytham," he said. "It's an Arabic word for 'eagle'. Our surname is 'Kenway'."  
  
"It sounds like a good name."  
  
"Thank you," his father gave an amused smile, and handed him a shirt and shoes.   
  
As soon as he was dressed, Haytham led him to the parlour, explaining that they were in one of his properties (a townhouse in northern New York) and that an associate of his had found him in a terrible state and brought him here. In the parlour awaited a different associate, a doctor named Benjamin Church.  
  


* * *

  
"It seems as though you have amnesia," Church said, after a lengthy examination. Ratonhnhaké:ton was not sure he liked the man. He was not cruel or rude, but he had a certain air about him, in his behaviour, that made Ratonhnhaké:ton feel as though Church cared more about his money than his patient.  
  
"I could have told you that much," the man from the night Ratonhnhaké:ton lost his memory snapped, standing near the door. Haytham had introduced him as Charles Lee. He decided that he ought to make an effort to be nice to the man, even if he was unfriendly. He had likely saved Ratohnhnhaké:ton's life, after all.  
  
"Luckily, your head injuries left most if not all of your mental faculties intact. Generally, amnesia only affects personal memories extending backwards from the time of said injury, and your case is no exception. Often, lost memories will return with time and healing, although you will almost certainly still have missing memories of the time immediately prior to the memory loss."  
  
"How long is it going to last?" Haytham interrupts, to Church's obvious annoyance.   
  
"Anywhere from a few days to a few decades. I can't give you a proper estimate right now."  
  
"Hm," Haytham said, looking deep in thought again. "Connor, can you remember where you live?"  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head, slowly.  
  
"I am afraid not."  
  
"Then you may stay here as long as you like," Haytham said.   
  
"I could not impose upon you for so long--" Ratohnhaké:ton started, but was cut off.   
  
"Nonsense!" Haytham said. "You're always so busy, swanning off doing this and that and never leaving any time for yourself… I hardly get to see you. A terrible state of affairs. No, it's best that you stay with me and you indulge yourself in all your little hobbies and whatnot. It might even speed up your recovery, eh, Church?"  
  
"Oh, yes," Church said, after a split second. "It's not really as if we can send you off home, none of us know where you live. Could do you the world of good. Best do as your father says."  
  
That was that, really. There was no room for any argument. After all, Ratonhnhaké:ton would do no good trying to leap back into a life he could not remember, nor would he do himself any favours by irritating his wounds so early in the healing process. At the very least, they had made him agree, he was to stay with Haytham until he at least knew the basics of his own life, even if he could not actually remember them.


	2. Chapter 2

He liked Haytham's house for several reasons. Firstly, it was large and pretty, simple but with elegant details, like the stained-glass windows in several of the rooms. Secondly, it was just far enough from the crowded dock areas to be peaceful, and close enough that he did not have any trouble running errands. Thirdly, there was almost always at least one guest about, usually one of Haytham's associates.   
  
His father's friends all seemed quite wary of him, and Haytham did not respond when he asked why, muttering things like "culture clashes" and "never really met properly" and "just don't know each other". Ratonhnhaké:ton was rather sceptical- surely that could not possibly be all there was to it?  
  
"I brought you some tea," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, knocking gently on the door of a study Charles Lee was currently using. The man looked up sharply, as though he could not believe that Ratonhnhaké:ton was there, much less being polite.  
  
"Oh? Er… put it on the table over there, thank you," Lee gestured vaguely to the right. Sure enough, there was a small table there, and Ratonhnhaké:ton put the steaming tray down carefully.  
  
"You have been working very hard," he commented. "Perhaps you ought to take a break."  
  
Lee scowled, clearly thinking that Ratonhnhaké:ton was making some kind of snide joke.  
  
"I  _have_ , actually. If all you're going to do is stand there and make rude comments, don't. Get out."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton held his hands up in a pacifying gesture. Clearly he and Lee were usually on bad terms. Now he had the opportunity to do so, he ought to fix that.   
  
"I meant no offence," he said. "On the contrary, I was being quite sincere. It is not healthy to work yourself so hard all the time."  
  
Lee raised an eyebrow, clearly suspicious.   
  
"I realise we are not exactly friends," Ratonhnhaké:ton continued. "However, since we have the opportunity to begin anew, I believe that we should. How do you take your tea?"  
  
Lee's expression shifted into surprise, then embarrassment, then to polite neutrality.   
  
"I, ah… just a splash of milk. Thank you."  
  
Ratonhnhake:ton nodded, and poured a cupful for them both. He decided he rather liked it black, with lemon and honey.  
  


* * *

  
One day, as he walked along the harbour, he heard a snatch of conversation. Two men were arguing outside a coffee house, and they seemed sober enough. Hickey stopped at a stall to talk to the vendor, so Ratonhnhaké:ton walked closer.   
  
(Haytham, in fatherly paranoia, had decided his son ought not leave the house unaccompanied, presumably in case he forgot how to get home or something equally patronising. Still, he went along with it for two reasons. Firstly, to keep the house peaceful- he did not like arguments, especially not over such petty matters- and secondly because he really didn't remember his way around New York, as much as he loathed to admit it to himself.)  
  
«What do you mean, you lost the papers? How are we going to get back home now?»  
  
«Don't look at me, you idiot! You're the one who had them last!»  
  
«We're stuck, then! We don't have enough money to buy a second lot of tickets and we can't go by foot. How does it feel to be the one who single-handedly wrecked the family business?»  
  
«Single-handedly? I beg your pardon, you useless--»  
  
«Excuse me,» he said, tapping one of the angry men on the shoulder. «You appear to be in some trouble. Perhaps I can help you.»  
  
The look the man gave him made Ratonhnhaké:ton seriously consider leaving these men to whatever problems they had. If he was too proud to accept help from a Native…  
  
«You might be able to,» the other man said, looking much happier. «We're from Quebec, you see, up north. We came here to buy stock for our tailoring business, but we lost the tickets we had to take a ship back, and due to the amount of fabric we have, its delicate nature and the current weather, it'll get ruined if we try to go by foot.»  
  
«Could you not speak to the ship's captain and explain the situation?» Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.  
  
«Ah, if we could, we would. The ship we booked to leave on is not the same as we came in on. We arrived on the Aquila, you see, and that's already left for… Saint Lucia, I think. We're getting the Poseidon back, and the captain is… not the most trusting fellow. We've not even spoken face-to-face.»  
  
«And that is why you need the papers. Or some more money with which to buy your way back on the ship.»  
  
«Yes.»  
  
«I will see what I can do.»  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton gave the men a reassuring smile, and took a surreptitious glance around the docks. One ship in particular just… seemed right. He strode off confidently in that direction, and sure enough the ship was the Poseidon. A hand landed on his shoulder, and he turned around in surprise, half-expecting to have to fight.  
  
"'Ere, what are you doin'?" Hickey asked. "What was you talkin' to them blokes about?"  
  
"They are French colonists, from the province of Quebec, and they are in need of assistance. I offered to help them."  
  
"You was speakin' French," Hickey said in disbelief. "You was speakin' French like a frog."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton resisted the urge to tell Hickey that frogs did not speak any human language, so his comparison made no sense. In truth, he had not noticed he was speaking French. Much like with English, the words sort of… appeared in his head, and he instinctively  _knew_  what the men had said and what he needed to say. He must have worked very hard for many years to achieve such fluency. Perhaps he had known a Frenchman.  
  
The Captain of the Poseidon turned out to be a rather grumpy fellow by the name of Ulrich. Still, he wasn't as unreasonable as Ratonhnhaké:ton feared, as he had no need to use violence to make the man agree to take the French Colonists back to their home, only about fifteen pounds worth of bribes and a long conversation over some ale.   
  
The look of mingled awe and annoyance on Hickey's face as Ratonhnhaké:ton chatted to the Captain in rapid (though imperfect) German was almost as gratifying as the colonists' heartfelt thanks.  
  


* * *

  
"Go to bed," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, in his most commanding tone. "You are far too tired to work efficiently."  
  
" _You_  go to bed," Haytham replied, sourly. "I need to finish the accounts."  
  
"I can do that. You need rest."  
  
Haytham looked as though he wanted to strangle his son. He banged a fist on the desk in frustration and exhaustion.   
  
"Damn it, child! Stop being so stubborn! Let me work in peace!"  
  
"You are the one being stubborn, father," Ratonhnhaké:ton rolled his eyes, mimicking his father's exasperated expression. "I used to do the accounts back at the homestead, I am sure I can finish your paperwork for you so you can get a half-decent night's sleep. Need I remind you that you have to be in Boston first thing in the morning?"  
  
Haytham's eyes narrowed.   
  
"Homestead?" he asked.   
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked. What was Haytham talking about?   
  
"Homestead?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow to indicate that he had no idea what the hell was going on.   
  
"You said-- oh, never mind. Don't worry about it, I'm just becoming senile in my old age," Haytham pushed back the chair, and gave a melodramatic sigh. "If you  _insist_ , I suppose I could let you finish these accounts, if only so you'll shut up and leave me in peace. I do rather need a good night's rest."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, and smiled. Haytham stood, grimacing as he straightened his posture. Slumping over a desk for so many hours could not have done his back any good.  
  
"Very well then. Goodnight."  
  
"Goodnight, father," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, giving his father a hug before he left the room.  
  
He sat down in the still-warm seat, and gave the paperwork a cursory glance. There was something rather familiar and comforting about the scratch of a pen against paper, about the feel and smell of books beneath his fingers.   
  
It was all rather nice, honestly.


	3. Chapter 3

Ratonhnhaké:ton stroked the shivering kitten softly, both to warm it a little and to comfort it. It mewled weakly, and shivered again. He had to get it out of the rain.   
  
He picked it up, gently as he could, and cradled it in his hands, trying to use his body and hat to shield it as much as he could from the storm.  
  
"Where are you, Connor?" Haytham's voice called, from the entrance to the warehouse. "We need to get moving."  
  
He let his fingers scratch lightly at the kitten's ears, and jogged around the corner to where his father was waiting, impatient as always.  
  
"Finally! Where were you, child?" Haytham snapped, turning to face him at the sound of Ratonhnhaké:ton's footsteps. His brow furrowed when he caught sight of the wet bundle of fur clutched in his son's hands. "And what the devil is that?"  
  
"It is a kitten, father," he replied. "I found it just around the corner."  
  
"Put it back," his father said. "We have things to do, remember? Biddle can't wait for us all day."  
  
"I cannot just leave it in the storm. It will  _die_."  
  
Haytham rolled his eyes, plainly irritated.  
  
"Then put it in your pocket and come along."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton gritted his teeth, fished a clean handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped the poor kitten in it. It mewled again, and he gave it an affectionate stroke. He walked just behind Haytham, and began the arduous task of moving all the various items he had on his person around, so he could put the tiny kitten in a large waistcoat pocket. He lined the pocket with a pair of cotton gloves as an afterthought. The kitten needed something to make it more comfortable, more insulation from the cold.  
  
"Hurry up!" Haytham snapped, and Ratohnhaké:ton sighed as he stowed the kitten away, as carefully as he could. It gave his fingers a soft nudge with its cold nose, and he hoped that was a thank you.   
  


* * *

  
Whatever it was that Haytham had wanted from Biddle, the captain was not being very helpful. Ratonhnhaké:ton sat on a crate on the wooden pier the Randolph was docked at. He stroked the pocket containing the kitten lightly, and was rewarded by a tiny noise that sounded a little like a purr.   
  
He replaced the damp handkerchief the kitten was wrapped in with a dry one, and it nudged his fingers again as he pulled his hand away. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, and shivered. His father was certainly taking a long time with Biddle.  
  
"Captain Connor?" a voice cried, sounding utterly shocked. Ratonhnhaké:ton turned to look at the man who'd shouted. Surely he could not be talking to  _him_?  
  
A scruffy-looking sailor was walking toward him, apparently having just seen a ghost.  
  
"Captain, you're all right!"  
  
"Captain?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. The man was clearly mistaken and somewhat tipsy, but he ought to be polite. "Do I know you, sir?"  
  
"It's Smithy! Simon Smithy, from the Aquila. I'm on leave, see, Faulkner saw to that. We're havin' a terrible time without you, sir! We thought you was dead or worse, sir. Everybody's dead worried 'bout you, sir. When they get back from the Caribbean, they'll be happy to see you alive an' well--"  
  
"I do not know what you are talking about," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, feeling bad about interrupting the man.  
  
As much as he would like to believe Smithy's story, it would be wrong to lead the man on when clearly there was a case of mistaken identities. Of course, there was a small possibility that he wasn't mistaken, but surely his father would have mentioned offhand if he really was captain of a ship. They wouldn't need to speak with Biddle if that was the case.

Although, come to think of it, the name 'Aquila' _did_ sound somewhat familiar...  
  
Smithy looked stunned.   
  
"But… you're the captain. Best in the seven seas. How can…?"  
  
"I think you have mistaken me for another. Even if I was your captain, I doubt I would do much good for your ship. I have lost a rather large chunk of my memory."  
  
"Captain, sailin' a ship's like ridin' a horse. You never forget how to do it," Smithy insisted, looking quite agitated now. Ratonhnhaké:ton held his hands up in a pacifying gesture.   
  
There was a faint noise, like men arguing, from somewhere behind him. Clearly Haytham's talk with Biddle was turning sour. It would be best to finish this conversation as soon as possible, then. A thought occurred to him. Hadn't those Frenchmen the other day come to New York on the Aquila? 

So that was where Ratonhnhaké:ton remembered the ship from. Smithy was simply a well-meaning drunk, then. He ought to at least let the man down gently.

He cleared his throat, and tried to sound as kind and reassuring as possible. 

"Sir, you are drunk. When you are sober, come and find me again. If you still believe I am your captain, then I will quite happily come and see your crew when they get back from the Caribbean. Until then, I have much business to attend to, and I am afraid I must insist that we part ways."  
  
Smithy looked crestfallen, but after a few moments of deep thought, nodded.   
  
"Where will you be?"  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton gave him the address of Haytham's house, and bade the man farewell. Smithy staggered off, and mere moments later, Haytham was storming off the ship, clearly furious.  
  
"How did it go?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. His father scowled, and kept walking, grabbing his arm and towing him along.  
  
"Disastrously. Who was that?"  
  
"The sailor?" Ratonhnhaké:ton took his father's hand from his arm as gently as he could. He hated the touch of unfamiliar people, but did not wish to aggravate Haytham further. "A case of mistaken identity. He thought I was the captain of his ship."  
  
He might have imagined it, but Haytham might have tensed a little, and his scowl grew a little more pronounced.   
  
"I hope you sent him on his way."  
  
"I did. I told him to find me when he was sober."  
  
"What? That isn't 'sending him on his way', boy, that's 'wasting precious time'!" Haytham snapped, irate.  
  
"Whose time? Mine? I have all the time in the world, father. What did you need to speak with Biddle about, anyway?"  
  
"Don't you dare change the subject," Haytham snarled. "If you must know, I needed him to take the Randolph to the southernmost Colonies. Stupid bastard's only gone and broken his arm."  
  
"So he cannot sail the ship?"  
  
"No, he can't."  
  
"That is terrible." Ratonhnhaké:ton paused a moment, before deciding to try to lighten Haytham's mood with a joke. "Perhaps I ought to sail her instead."  
  
"What?" Haytham looked horrified at the prospect. "That's a God-awful idea!"  
  
"I have no idea if I can sail or not. That sailor might have been right. I might be really good at it."  
  
"It isn't happening, and that's final." Haytham's voice was strained, angry, even.  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton is silent a moment, shocked really, and clears his throat.  
  
"I was _joking_ , father."  
  
Haytham rubs his eyes with his hand.   
  
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I'm tired. Biddle put me in a bad mood. I never get to see you or spend time with you. I don't want you to go swanning off to New Orleans and getting in trouble, especially not in your current state."  
  
"I understand," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Are we still going to the hospital?"  
  
Haytham shook his head.   
  
"Tomorrow. I don't want to deal with that money-grabbing fopdoodle today."  
  
"I could go in your stead," Ratonhnhaké:ton offered. Haytham shook his head.  
  
"You don't even know what I need to speak with him about. Don't worry about it. It's nothing you need to concern yourself with."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, and gave the pocketed kitten a stroke, hoping his cloak wouldn't soak through before they got back to the house.   
  
He hoped that his father would stop being so snappish and secretive soon. It made it rather difficult to trust him.


	4. Chapter 4

The morning after finding the kitten- Ratonhnhaké:ton wasn't sure what to call it- a new friend of his father arrived. This one was called Johnson, and was apparently something of an expert in Native culture.   
  
"It'll do you good to spend time with him while he's here," Haytham said, at breakfast that day. "Take that cat off the table."  
  
Ratohnhaké:ton reluctantly picked the kitten up and placed it on his lap instead. He gave it a sliver of sausage, and it mewled happily.   
  
"When is he arriving?"  
  
"Shortly. Within the next hour or so, at any rate. I want you to stay here while I go to Church's clinic.  
  
"I thought you said he worked at a hospital?"  
  
"They're the same thing, aren't they? Stop being so pedantic."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton shrugged, and pushed his food around his plate.   
  
"You ought to be more precise in your speech," he said, curtly. Everything seemed to be irritating him as of late, and he wasn't entirely sure why.  
  
Haytham rolled his eyes, and scowled.  
  
"Just behave, will you?"  


* * *

  
Johnson turned out to be a nervous-looking Irishman who wore a Native shawl and jewellery. He greeted Ratonhnhaké:ton in heavily accented Kanien'kehá:ka, so Ratonhnhaké:ton responded in kind.   
  
"You must be Ratonhnhaké:ton. Your father's told me a lot about you."  
  
"Oh? He has told me little about you. Or anything else, for that matter."  
  
"You sound angry," Johnson noted, watching him wearily as he lead the way to the small, cosy library.  
  
"I am frustrated. Father is not being particularly helpful."  
  
"Helpful? What do you need help with?" Johnson seemed genuinely interested, and leant forward slightly, grand fatherly concern etched upon his face. Ratonhnhaké:ton halted next to a staircase. He sighed and gestured for Johnson to ascend first. He did.  
  
"Father may have told you that I have lost some sixteen years' worth of memories. He seems to think that because of this I am some kind of fool, and he is more concerned with his business partners than with his own son's wellbeing."  
  
Johnson nodded.   
  
"I understand. It must be very difficult for you. I do, however, think you're being too hard on your father. He's never been very good at showing affection. He always coped with bad things by working too hard."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton took them left, and they stopped in front of a set of double doors. He opened one to allow Johnson to step through first.  
  
"Is is as though we are strangers," he said, sadly. "I know that thanks to the accident, we  _are_ strangers, but… it is like he does not know me at all."  
  
Johnson settled into an armchair near the small fireplace in the centre of the far wall. His posture and expression were relaxed, but his eyes were intense and alert.  
  
"I would have thought at least one of his associates would been friendly toward me," Ratonhnhaké:ton mused aloud. "Or at least seemed to know me. I  _did_ grow up with father, after all."  
  
"Most of your father's associates started as simply business partners," Johnson said. "He became rather distraught after your mother died, and he took you in, and it all started from there, really. Turned out we all had a lot in common. We tried to help him as best we could, but we're all rather busy men. Couldn't afford to meet as a group more than one night every few months for cards and drinking. I only met you twice before today. Once when you were four, and once when you were nineteen."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton leant forward, interested. Johnson was awfully knowledgeable. He could probably help him a lot with his investigations into his past.  
  
"I shall fetch some tea," he said. "Then you can tell me more."  
  
Johnson gave him a polite smile, but did not agree.  
  
"I should like to, but I unfortunately came here on very specific business. Haytham has a number of artifacts from various tribes, and I came here to examine them. You can stay if you like, but it would be very boring to watch, and I only have an hour or so to work with."  
  
"Oh," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Perhaps some other time?"  
  
"Of course." Johnson inclined his head, and his gaze moved to a small wooden chest on a nearby bookshelf. "The artifacts are in that box. Could you fetch it for me, please?"  
  
"Certainly," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, and he got up. "I shall make some tea regardless. You look as though you are in need of refreshment. It is, after all, terribly hot outside today."  
  
Johnson gave him a thankful smile as he handed over the box.  


* * *

  
Ratonhnhaké:ton stroked the kitten idly. He needed to give it a name.   
  
George, perhaps?   
  
He looked at the kitten. It did not look like a George. Besides, the name did not feel right. The kitten was inquisitive, and clever (as clever as a tiny cat could be, that is), and too frail for a strong-sounding name.  
  
"Achilles…" he murmured.   
  
The Greek hero whose one weak spot had been his heel. Though the kitten had nothing wrong with any of its legs or paws, something about it seemed  _fitting_. He ran a few fingers through the fluffy, grey-and-chocolate fur, and peered into its brown eyes.   
  
"Does that sound like a good name to you?" he asked the kitten. "Achilles?"  
  
It mewled and nudged his finger with its nose.  
  
"Achilles it is," he said, stroking it again.  
  
There was a sudden knocking at his door, and Ratonhnhaké:ton rolled off the bed to answer. His father was standing in the hall, looking vaguely irritated. He smoothed his expression into kind neutrality quickly.  
  
"Yes?"   
  
"That sailor from the other day is here. He's in the parlour. I do hope you won't humour him any more than strictly necessary."  
  
"I will not," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, more coldly than he meant to. Haytham gave him an impatient glare, and stalked down the hall in the direction of his study. Ratonhnhaké:ton said goodbye to Achilles before heading down to the parlour.  
  
"Good afternoon," he said, as he shut the door behind him. Smithy was sitting stiffly on the reclining couch, looking uncomfortable. His face was pink, freshly scrubbed and shaved.  
  
"G'd afternoon, sir," Smithy replied. "Nearly forgot your address, that's why I got 'ere so late, sir. Sorry, sir."  
  
"Well, you got here in the end," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, reassuringly, and sat down in an armchair opposite the sailor. "Would you like some tea?"  
  
"No, sir, always been a coffee sort o' man meself, but thank you all the same, sir."  
  
"I believe my father keeps a tin of coffee around."  
  
"No, sir, don't want to be a bother."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton studied Smithy carefully. He certainly seemed honest enough, and  _something_  about him gave a feeling that he did not have sufficient words to explain. Smithy gave him a feeling that was… sort of  _blue_.  
  
Curious.   
  
His father and acquaintances, if he really thought hard about it, gave him a feeling of  _red._    
  
He wondered, briefly, what that might mean.  
  
"When are you comin' back t' the Aquila, sir?" Smithy asked, meekly, jolting Ratonhnhaké:ton from his reverie.   
  
"So I  _am_  your captain?" he asked. Smithy nodded, enthusiastically, and Ratonhnhaké:ton felt a surge of hope. He would have  _answers_!  
  
"Yessir. No doubt about that."  
  
"When is she back in dock?"  
  
"Not for another month at least, sir. She's gone to Saint Lucia, and she's stoppin' off at Jamaica on the way back. Tradin', see. You always been good at that, sir. Got a way wiv people."  
  
"So you have been on leave two months?"  
  
"I usually stay on ship an' do little jobs when we dock, sir, but I caught ill and Faulkner made me take the last three years' leave all at once. Lucky break, innit, sir?"  
  
"Yes, it is," Ratonhnhaké:ton let out a small chuckle. "You do not need to keep calling me 'sir'."  
  
"Oh, you always say that, sir. It's the one order o' yours we all ignore. Yer modest down to a fault, sir."  
  
"Really?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. "This is going to sound terribly strange, but… could you tell me more about me?"  
  
"Cos of the memory loss?" Smithy asked, looking uncomfortable. "Erm, I don't know a whole lot about yer personal life, Faulkner's practically yer dad, 'e'd be able to tell you anyfing. I know which 'ouse is yours in Davenport, but… all I can tell you about you is stuff you prob'ly already know, sir."  
  
"Such as?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, feeling the hope he'd felt just minutes earlier dissipate.  
  
"You take your tea black wiv honey and lemon. You speak one o' them Indian lingos, perfect English an' French, damn good German, a bit o' Italian and you can ask for directions in Spanish and Portuguese. You climb trees an' buildin's like a monkey- a graceful monkey, mind you sir- and you can take on twenty armed men in a fight and still come out on top."  
  
"Twenty men?!" Ratonhnhaké:ton, despite his best efforts, let out a small, sharp laugh. "Surely you exaggerate?"  
  
"No, sir," Smithy said, seriously. "Counted, sir. I bet Big John you could take thirty."  
  
"I am sorry to tell you that you have probably lost your money."  
  
Smithy gave him a knowing wink.   
  
"Ah, but that's what you said 'bout twenty, sir."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton's face was starting to ache from smiling so much. Smithy's stories were  _nice_. He wasn't sure how much he believed the man, but receiving so many compliments in such a short space of time- from the same person, no less- made him feel nothing short of wonderful.  
  
"Tell me, Smithy. What are the others aboard the Aquila like?"  
  
"Honest, sir," Smithy replied, without hesitation. "They're 'ard workers, though they do like a drink. They're the best men in the world, sir, and you earnt the loyalty of every single one of 'em a long time ago."  
  
There really wasn't much Ratonhnhaké:ton could say to that, except wrap up their meeting, and arrange to meet again at a coffee house near the docks instead of in Haytham's parlour. His father did not seem to like Smithy at all, and he did not particularly want to anger the man.   
  
He walked Smithy to the front door, in high spirits.  
  
Those high spirits did not last for very long.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Ratohnhaké:ton had scarcely closed the door before he heard his father's voice. He turned around to see him rifling through the letters on a small table in the hall.   
  
"I hope you haven't invited him back," Haytham said. He selected an envelope, and picked up the letter-opener that lay beside the small pile of letters. "I don't particularly want drunkards loitering in my house."  
  
"Thomas Hickey," Ratonhnhaké:ton snapped.  
  
"He isn't a drunkard, he's an alcoholic. There is a difference. Anyway, I need him for work purposes."  
  
"And I need that sailor for personal purposes," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, crossing his arms. Haytham glanced up, shock in his eyes, and almost sliced his index finger with the letter-opener.  
  
"I really hope you don't mean what it sounds as though you mean," he said, looking slightly disgusted. "I'd rather not have my son jailed for sodomy, thank you very much."  
  
"You think I am…?" Ratonhnhaké:ton began, slightly dumbfounded. "I was talking about my memories. How could I possibly be speaking about--" he swallowed, unable to say the s-word, "-- _that_  sort of thing?"  
  
"English is a funny language. Take more care with your speech in future. I don't want somebody getting the wrong idea and deciding that the best way to deal with the misunderstanding is to kill you." Haytham slid the letter from its envelope, and scanned the contents.  
  
"And just how likely is that to happen?" Ratonhnhaké:ton retorted. Haytham looked back up.   
  
"To me? Almost no chance. To you? It's almost certain. People are ignorant and ill-informed. They'll believe anything about Natives, and they take pleasure in trying to force Colonist ideologies, Colonist religions, the Colonist way of doing things upon them all. Starting with the young man in front of them who doesn't quite understand English idioms."  
  
"But I am half-British, surely--" Ratonhnhaké:ton began to argue, only to be cut off by his father.  
  
"How many Natives do you think the average Colonist has met? Do you really think it matters that you're half white? We've had this conversation many times, Connor. People don't see your intelligence or your eloquence. They see only what they want to see. They see a savage dressed in a nice suit. A monkey pretending to be a man."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton was stunned into silence. Haytham's words had a similar effect to being randomly hit over the head with a block of ice: he was bewildered, angry and rather hurt.  
  
His father's expression was bitter. He did not seem to have enjoyed his rant.  
  
"Why are you telling me this?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.   
  
"Because I care about you. You're my son. I love you. And you don't seem to realise how precarious your position in the world is. I don't want to see you hurt."  
  
"You are hurting me now, father," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, quietly.   
  
"Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind." There was no trace of smugness or happiness in Haytham's voice.   
  
"Then I do not think I want your kindness." He had wanted to sound fierce, angry even. Instead his voice trembled with sorrow and frustration. His eyes prickled.  
  
"All right," Haytham said, just as softly and just as sadly. "Then take off those clothes. Give me back the food you've eaten and the tea you've drunk. Leave this house and return to the burnt-out ruins where the village you were born once stood. Go back to the wilderness, and see how long you last all alone, with nobody to talk to and nobody to take care of you when you're sick."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton stood where he was, staring at the blurry carpet. His father was right, as much as he wanted to say he wasn't. He did owe him a lot. And it wasn't Haytham's fault so many of his fellow Colonists were horrible specimens of humanity.   
  
He couldn't think of anything to say, so he turned his gaze downward and willed his eyes to stop watering and his breath to stop hitching. His father stood across from him a moment more, before leaving him alone. He could hardly hear the soft, measured footsteps over the sound of his own blood pounding in his head.  
  


* * *

  
He spent the rest of the day moping in his room, and not even playing with Achilles could lighten his mood. He ignored the knockings on his door, asking him whether he was going to eat lunch or dinner or not.   
  
"I am not hungry," he muttered, when Haytham eventually opened the door.  
  
"Come on, boy," his father said. "You can't just lock yourself away like this forever."  
  
"Whoever said I planned to?" Ratonhnhaké:ton murmured, concentrating on petting Achilles.   
  
"I'm your father," Haytham said, by way of explanation. "We're going out to dinner, you and I and the others. Put that nice green jacket on and comb your hair."  
  
"I thought you said that my clothes did not make a difference," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I look like 'a savage', I believe your words were. Or was it 'a monkey dressed as a man'?"  
  
Haytham put a hand on his shoulder, trying to be comforting. Somehow, it did not feel appropriate, which was stupid considering that they were family, close enough to touch each other without being extremely rude. Ratonhnhaké:ton shrugged the hand off.  
  
"You know I didn't mean it like that. People are ignorant, but they can learn. You just have to show them."  
  
"What, by reading Chaucer? Going to the opera? Those things do not suit me, father."  
  
"How do you know if you've never tried?"  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton paused. That was a good question. How  _did_  he know?  
  
Ah...  
  
"I went to see a play in Boston, once," he said, trying to catch the fading memory before it flew too far from his mind. "I do not remember the name, or the plot. All I remember is feeling hot and uncomfortable and bored, and being stared at."  
  
Haytham was silent a moment.  
  
"Perhaps it was simply a bad play," he offered. "Anyway, that isn't the point. The point is that we're going out for dinner, and drinks, and you still haven't met John yet. He's a brilliant character. I daresay you'll get on rather well."  
  
"I do not feel like it, father."  
  
"Please." Haytham sounded almost sad. Pleading, even. After a long moment, he sighed. "Well, if you feel that strongly, you can stay here."  
  
His father's footsteps sounded heavy and weary, and just as he reached the door, Ratonhnhaké:ton changed his mind. It would do him no good to keep wallowing in self-pity and frustration.  
  
"Wait, father. I suppose I was being somewhat stubborn. I will come with you."  
  
"Wonderful," Haytham said, before quietly closing the door behind him as he left.  
  


* * *

  
Dinner was an informal affair at an inn with a French chef, if somewhat awkward. He made small talk with Johnson mostly, and politely enquired about John Pitcairn's work.   
  
"I don't particularly wish to talk about it," Pitcairn rumbled after a few minutes. "I'm on leave the next two weeks, then I've got to go back to Charlestown."  
  
"I understand," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Would anybody like another drink? I believe it is my turn to buy the next round."  
  
Hickey, predictably, had wanted another strong ale, or two, or three. The others elected to share a few bottles of red wine. Ratonhnhaké:ton himself would be getting a strong coffee. He did not hate alcohol, but he could not bring himself to drink it. He was not entirely sure why, but he must have had a reason. Perhaps his job- whatever that was- meant he needed to have a clear head, and he had simply gotten into the habit of never drinking? Or perhaps he'd had a bad experience with it earlier in his life.  
  
Everything went swimmingly until he reached the bar. He politely gave the barmaid the order, and told her to keep the extra pound-and-three-shillings of change. Then, he waited. The coffee here was fresh, and good, and he made sure to send compliments to the chef for his excellent ratatouille.   
  
A man, perhaps forty, stood behind the bar, in the kitchen doorway. He watched Ratonhnhaké:ton intently. Ratonhnhaké:ton pretended not to notice, and concentrated on the man talking rather loudly about him a few metres away.  
  
"'Oo fort it were a good idea teh let 'em Indians in 'ere, then? Savages, the lot of 'em."  
  
Something  _snapped_  inside Ratonhnhaké:ton.  
  
"I can hear you, sir," he said, coldly. "And for your information, I am half-British."  
  
"Still a savage, though," the drunkard sneered.   
  
"I am less savage than you," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. The man growled, and swung a fist at him. He dodged it easily, and the blow the man's friend tried to throw him. His body moved before his brain could tell it what to do, and it took only thirty seconds of using their movements against them before he could quickly knock the both of them unconscious by slamming their heads together.  
  
He straightened his clothes and picked up his hat, and walked back to the barmaid, who looked shocked. He ignored the horrified stares of the others in the room.  
  
"Would you like me to carry the bottles? They look heavy."  
  
She nodded, dumbly.  
  
"I apologise for the destruction of the table. I would be happy to pay for a new one."  
  
She nodded, again. He took the bottles and made his way back to the table. He placed the bottles on the table, gently, and sat down. The others were silent.  
  
"They are bringing your ales over in a minute, Thomas," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Is the chef still staring at me?"  
  
"Why wouldn't he be staring?" Haytham snarled, finally having regained enough composure to speak. "I told you to be polite and civilised, not to start bar fights with drunkards!"  
  
"I think you will find the drunkard threw the first punch. I cannot be expected to refrain from defending myself when the need arises. In any case, the chef was staring at me before that."  
  
"There's someone comin' over wiv our drinks," Hickey said. Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up- it was the man he'd thought was the chef.  
  
"Three ales," the man said- yes, he had to be the chef, his accent was as French as could be. «And yours is the coffee, isn't it, Connor?»  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton took the proffered mug, and gave the man a thankful smile.  
  
«Indeed it is, thank you,» he said. «Have we met before?»  
  
An unreadable expression crossed the man's face.  
  
«You are something of a regular customer here. My name is Stephane. Don't you remember?»  
  
«I unfortunately was in an accident some time ago, and suffered quite severe memory loss,» he explained. The man nodded, thinking hard.  
  
«Well, Connor,» Stephane said. «That does certainly explain why we haven't seen you lately. Say, why don't you drop by this Saturday? There's a couple of other regulars that you're friendly with. I'll even give you some free coffee.»  
  
«I could not possibly accept goods without giving you something in return.»  
  
«But you'll come, right? Meet some old friends? They've been dying to see you again.»  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton hesitated. Stephane was… somewhat over-eager. However, he exuded that same kind of blue feeling that Smithy had given him. What was the worst that could possibly happen?  
  
«Why not? I shall be here at two o'clock sharp.»  
  
Stephane grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. Ratonhnhaké:ton turned back to see Haytham and the others staring, slightly surprised.   
  
"What was all that about?"   
  
"What, father? We were simply having a conversation."  
  
"Next time, have it in a language all of us can understand," Haytham snapped. "No foreign languages at the dinner table."  
  
"Does that include Mohawk?" Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, in Kanien'kehá:ka.   
  
Haytham looked furious, and Johnson let out an ungentlemanly giggle.  
  
"It is not a foreign language," Ratonhnhaké:ton explained, in English.   
  
"He's right, Haytham," Johnson said.   
  
"We're leaving," Haytham snapped, mood clearly soured.  
  
Despite his father's bad mood, the evening ended on a high, as the group finished their drinks and made their way back to the townhouse. Ratonhnhaké:ton did wonder if perhaps he saw glimpses of somebody following them, but he quickly put the thought out of his head. After all, why would anybody want to follow him home?


	6. Chapter 6

  
Ratohnhaké:ton paused, quill mid-air, when he heard the barking of dogs. These were the high-pitched yaps that belonged to the small, fluffy sort of dog Colonist ladies seemed to adore. And they seemed to be coming from inside the house.  
  
He set the quill down, wiping the ink from the nib, and gave Achilles a pet on the head.   
  
"Please do not walk over the wet ink, I shall be back shortly."  
  
Achilles mewled, and Ratonhnhaké:ton left the study (shutting the door because Achilles was something of a mischievous kitten, even at the best of times) to investigate.   
  
Charles stood in the entrance hall, surrounded by a number of tiny, impossibly fluffy dogs. Ratonhnhaké:ton wracked his brains, trying to remember what the name of their breed was.   
  
"I did not know you liked dogs," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, conversationally. He gave them cursory count- there seemed to be nine of them, but they were moving an awful lot, running in circles around their owner.  
  
Charles gave him a polite nod.   
  
"They're pomeranians. Usually I leave them at my home, but I've been away a lot recently. I thought they might appreciate the walk."  
  
"They certainly seem very energetic," Ratonhnhaké:ton mused. He bent down, and gave one an affectionate scratch around the ears. It yipped, and launched itself at his knee, enthusiastically. Ratonhnhaké:ton chuckled.  
  
"They are," Charles admitted. "They need a lot of time and attention, too. But they're fiercely loyal."  
  
"I do not see any leads," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "They… followed you here?"  
  
"They're fiercely loyal," Charles repeated himself, a small smile having slipped onto his mouth.   
  
"That must be nice," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "You are never really alone, are you?"  
  
Charles' smile dropped slowly, after a few minutes.  
  
"You're not alone, either. You have your father. You have friends."  
  
"Friends I have no memory of and a father who does not seem to want me to remember anything," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, more bitterly than he had intended.  
  
"Your father only wants what's best for you," Charles replied, placatingly. "He isn't very good at showing affection."  
  
"Johnson already told me that," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I am not angry. I am simply frustrated."  
  
"I suppose that's understandable," Charles nodded. "Speaking of your memories, have you remembered anything further?"  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed, and shook his head.  
  
"No. It seems I am the captain of a ship, the Aquila, but I do not remember ever sailing. It was a member of the crew that told me," he explained. "I have met some men who claim to be my friends, but I do not recall their names or faces."  
  
Charles looked at him, something that might be sympathy in his eyes. He reached out, and patted his shoulder in… solidarity, perhaps? Understanding? Ratonhnhaké:ton did not know the man well enough to know. He shrugged off the hand as politely as he could.  
  
"I ought to simply count my blessings," Ratonhnhaké:ton finished, lamely. "It is lucky you found me that night. Otherwise I could have found myself in a terribly dangerous situation."  
  
"I don't think Haytham would have ever forgiven me, had I let you die," was all Charles said in reply.  
  


* * *

  
Hickey was, predictably, hung over. When Ratonhnhaké:ton entered the kitchen, he groaned, burying his head in his arms on the table.  
  
"Keep it down," he croaked. "Else I'll vomit on you."  
  
"Did you have too much to drink yesterday?"  
  
"Ain't no such fing as too much to drink, lad. Jus' an unfortunate side-effect of bein' nicely tipsy."  
  
"Of course," Ratohnhaké:ton said, searching the cupboards for several herbs he knew would help settle Hickey's stomach. Haytham's cook was not well-versed in traditional medicines, but he found some mint and dried ginger, which would do in the absence of the remedies he had grown up with. A quick search of the larder produced a lemon, and Connor cut it up mostly because Hickey probably needed the nutrients. A diet of beer and spirits could not be doing the man's body any good.   
  
"Wot you bangin' about for?" Hickey moaned.   
  
"You will thank me in a half hour or so," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, filling a saucepan with water, and lighting the stove. "Have you taken any pain relieving drugs yet?"  
  
Hickey chuckles bitterly.   
  
"'Course I 'ave, sweet'eart. You don't really fink I'm jus' sittin' 'ere for shits an' giggles? Waitin' for the damn stuff to kick in, so's I can eat."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton added the ginger and lemon to the simmering water, and tore the mint leaves apart, throwing them into the mixture as well.   
  
"I will be surprised if you can eat anything while you are still feeling so nauseous."  
  
"Wot?" Hickey asked, blearily.   
  
"It means to feel sick," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. He debated whether to strain the herbal tea, or whether to simply be very careful with a ladle. Soggy mint leaves would probably do Hickey a world of good. The man was probably on the verge of scurvy.  
  
"Then I'll eat, vomit, an' then eat some more."   
  
"Try this first," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, gesturing to the saucepan. "It is a natural remedy for nausea."  
  
"You an' yer big words," Hickey moaned, but he did not protest when a cup of the brew was pressed into his hands, and he only wrinkled his nose a little before drinking it.  
  
A few long minutes passed, in which Ratonhnhaké:ton helped himself to the drink, and cut them both some bread to eat.  
  
"'Snot as good as ale, but it ain't 'orrible," Hickey said, eventually. "Cheers."  
  


* * *

  
"Achilles!" Ratonhnhaké:ton called, searching for the kitten. "Achilles, where are you?"  
  
He ducked past an open doorway.  
  
"Achilles!"   
  
Still, there was no telltale scrabbling of claws on the wooden floors, nor could he hear mewling.  
  
"Achilles, where are you?"  
  
He vaulted down the stairs, hoping to see the cat somewhere. He crouched, to inspect a small covered side table in the hall.  
  
"Achilles?" Haytham asked, from a doorway. His expression was unreadable, in a somewhat ominous way.  
  
"The kitten," Ratonhnhaké:ton explained. "Have you seen him?"  
  
"No," Haytham said, and he raised an eyebrow severely. "That's a horrible name for a cat, by the way. Call him something else."  
  
"I cannot," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Giving him a new name suddenly will confuse him. What is so horrible about his name, anyway?"  
  
"Nothing in particular, it's just a horrible name generally. What about Smoky?" Haytham looked… not exactly vexed, but certainly unhappy.   
  
"Smoky is an awful name. I find it offensive," Ratonhnhaké:ton said.   
  
He wasn't actually offended by the name, but saying so would almost certainly give him the upper hand in this discussion. Haytham might be brash and arrogant and downright horrible at times, but his cruelty was a side-effect of his stubbornness and straightforward nature. In other words, he did not go out of his way to offend his son, and seemed genuinely upset when he did. It was underhanded to use this trait against his father, but he was certainly not going to give Achilles a new name and especially not just because Haytham didn't like Greek mythology.  
  
"Offensive?" There, his father's eyebrows were quirking just so, a sign that he wasn't as impassive as he appeared to be.  
  
"To name a thing after its appearance, to presume that the way it looks is the most important facet of its being… How is that not offensive? What if I were to call you 'whitey'? Or 'old'? Would that not be hurtful?"   
  
He paused a moment, meeting Haytham's eyes.  
  
"Instead, should we not name in order to inspire? To shape? To guide a child through growing into a good adult?"  
  
His father's brow was furrowed in confusion. Excellent. Then it was time for Ratonhnhaké:ton to deliver the finishing blow.  
  
"My name means 'one whose life is scratched'. Mother did not give me that name so I would suffer, she gave it to me so that I would have the inner strength to rise above such hardships. Likewise, Achilles of Greek mythology was a perfect warrior. A perfect person, by the standards of the time. His only flaw was so small it was essentially non-existent. It is the very definition of a good name."  
  
Haytham blinked, rubbed his thumb over his lower lip absent-mindedly, and gave a worldy sigh.  
  
"You're not raising a warrior. You're raising a cat. Nevertheless, I see your logic, and I apologise for offending you. I still think it's a terrible name, but clearly you're not going to be swayed from your idiocy."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton struggled to keep the smile off his face, and nodded politely. When Haytham had retired back to his study, Ratonhnhaké:ton resumed his search. It took the best part of an hour, but he eventually found the kitten stuck on a high shelf in the library.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for how late this was. Among other things, I caught gastroenteritis. :'(
> 
> Now that the plot has advanced somewhat, I hope that the next instalments will be less sporadic.

"Wot you thinkin' o' doin' today?" Hickey asked, as Ratonhnhaké:ton donned his hat and coat. Haytham, as per the usual, had insisted one of his friends accompany Ratonhnhaké:ton on his outing. Ratonhnhaké:ton did not complain, though he was more than a little irritated at his father's overprotectiveness. Still, Hickey was capable of discretion on occasion, and was easily bribed by beer and coin.   
  
"I am going to the market. Nothing very interesting."  
  
Though Ratonhnhaké:ton did not like lying, he was certain his father would not be happy to learn of his meeting with the mysterious Stephane. If he didn't know any better, he would suspect his father did not want him to remember his past. As it was, his distrustfulness was, while well-meaning, exhausting to deal with.  
  
"Oh," Hickey looked crestfallen at the thought of not drinking with pretty ladies. "Mind if I go to an inn while you browse? Jus' one beer, or two. You come find me when yer done? Or maybe we go to an inn after you done yer shoppin'?"  
  
"I shall be fine on my own. Have the first on me," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, pressing a silver coin into Hickey's hand.   
  
"Gladly. Don't tell yer daddy 'bout this, though. 'E'd fink I weren't doin' my duties or somefin'."  
  
"I am nothing if not discreet," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. "I shall come and find you at… shall we say three o'clock?"  
  
"Sounds all right. 'Ave fun, then," Hickey grinned, sauntering off as soon as they reached the market square. Ratonhnhaké:ton watched him warily, hoping he wasn't about to go to Stephane's tavern. That would mean explanations, and he wasn't sure he had any.   
  
After all, he ought to be honest with his father and the others about his plans, about how he was trying to remember. He shouldn't be skulking around in secrecy because of a bad feeling. There wasn't any real reason to distrust Haytham, he was simply overprotective… but a small part of Ratonhnhaké:ton was convinced he didn't want Ratonhnhaké:ton to remember anything.  
  
No, those were stupid thoughts. Ratonhnhaké:ton took a deep breath, and watched as Hickey turned the corner to the docks. Good. Not the same inn, then. He glanced at the clock atop the covered part of the market. Almost two o'clock exactly.   
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton walked to the entrance of the inn, and opened the door. There were a few tables of customers, though it seemed to be rather quiet at this time of day. He drew a few stares, and though he was quite used to people marvelling at 'a savage walking the streets', he still felt nervous at the attention.   
  
"Connor, you're here," Stephane called, from behind the bar. He grinned, obviously pleased.  
  
"Did you doubt me?" Ratonhnhaké:ton gave him a small smile. It felt… natural to joke. They must have been friends for a rather long time, then.   
  
"Of course not, my friend!" Stephane left the bar. "Come, sit with us. I shall introduce you to everybody, and we can speak of more important matters."  
  
"That sounds good. I have many questions."  
  
Stephane pressed a generous mug of coffee into his hand, and led him to a table with a rather varied group already settled there: a woman in a hood, a priest and a bearded man with a hat. Ratonhnhaké:ton hesitated a moment before sitting down. Yes, turning the chair around would be more comfortable, but he wanted to make a good first impression-- or second impression, as it were-- on these people.   
  
"Hello," he said, taking a sip of coffee. The others were looking at him in an oddly expectant way.   
  
"I couldn't get everybody to assemble here at such short notice, but perhaps we can arrange another meeting at a better time. There are some rather urgent things we need to speak with you about," Stephane said, setting a couple more drinks on the table. "Achilles wanted to come here, but I think he's still sick. The past two months have been hard for him. We all thought you were dead."  
  
Achilles? He knew somebody by that name? Achilles was sick? What was he like? He hoped that Stephane would provide some answers, once the introductions were over with.  
  
"My apologies," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "If I had known--"  
  
"You'd have tried to contact us," the hooded woman finished his sentence. By her accent, she was Irish. "We know. We're just glad you're alive."  
  
"How did you survive the explosion, by the way?" the bearded man asked. He looked mildly concerned.  
  
"I do not know," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, truthfully. "I was running, and I was hurt, and there were soldiers after me, and I was on the verge of collapsing. I was pulled into a hiding spot by one of my father's friends, and I lost consciousness."  
  
"Which friend?" the priest asked. He was Irish as well, and had the same expression of worry that the others now bore.   
  
"Charles Lee," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I apologise, but I cannot recall your names."  
  
"No, we should be apologising, Connor, we have forgotten our manners," Stephane said, reassuringly. "From left to right, we have Dobby Carter, the best courier in New York--" the woman nodded "-- then Duncan Little, a former minister--" the priest gave a kind smile "-- and Jamie Colley, our resident doctor--" the man tipped his hat politely "-- last but not least, of course, is myself. Stephane Chapeau."  
  
"We're missing Clipper and Jacob, but they're on very important contracts right now," Jamie said, by way of explanation.  
  
"Contracts? We run a business?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.  
  
"Ah… sort of," Dobby said, looking uncomfortable. "How much do you remember?"  
  
"From before the accident? Almost nothing. I mean…" Ratonhnhaké:ton tried to remember how he'd explained it to his father. "There are sizeable gaps. Lots of them. There are some images and sounds, but nothing substantial."  
  
"Images?" Jamie leant forward, rummaging in one of his pockets. "Like what?"  
  
"Uh… Forests, snow, the ocean…" Ratonhnhaké:ton said. Jamie put something metal on the table.  
  
"Does this remind you of anything? It's yours."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton picked the silver shape up gingerly. It was a heavily stylised upside-down V, almost tear-drop in shape. There were small loops on the back, as though it were meant to be attached to clothing. It looked… familiar.   
  
 _Ah…_  
  
"Somebody drew that shape on a riverbank. There was a curved line beneath it," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, trying to recall something, anything else. Someone had been with him, he was sure. But who? And how long ago had that been?  
  
"Anything else?" Duncan asked, hopefully.  
  
"My apologies," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, setting the accessory on the table. "It is familiar, but…"  
  
"Don't apologise," Jamie said. He pulled a few folded sheets of paper from a different pocket, and took a pencil from a pouch on his belt. He slid these across to Ratonhnhaké:ton as well. "While we're talking, could you make a note of any names or symbols you remember? Or any locations? It might help your memory if, next time we meet, we could show you things you already remember a little, or perhaps give you directions to places you vaguely recall."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, and set to work. He wasn't very good at drawing, but perhaps a description of the landscapes he remembered would be helpful.   
  
"Tell us about what happened after you woke up," Dobby pressed, as he wrote.   
  
"There is not much to tell," he answered. "I woke up in a room I did not recognise, realised I had no memory, and tried to piece together what little I could. My father walked in, tested my memory, and had me see a doctor. We agreed I would stay with him until I regained my memory. Progress has been slow."  
  
"I bet it has," Duncan muttered, darkly.   
  
"Er, what Duncan means is that there's a lot you don't know about," Stephane said, hurriedly. He shot Duncan a glare. "Like us, for example. If we'd met before now, you might already be halfway back to your normal life by now. Eh, Jamie?"  
  
"Well, not halfway," Jamie said. "But you'd probably be back at your own house at least."  
  
"I have my own house?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. Was it in New York? Or the Frontier? He'd assumed he mostly lived on the Aquila.  
  
"Well, it's mostly yours. Very nice, too, north of Boston. We'll take you there sometime. It's a very lovely village, lots of neighbours who miss you something terrible," Dobby explained, enthusiastically.  
  
"Is it near the sea?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. The others' expressions turned far too hopeful. This wasn't a new memory, just piecing together information he already had. He clarified. "I met a sailor around a week or so ago who seemed to think I was the captain of a ship."  
  
"Oh, the Aquila?" Stephane said. "A fine vessel. You'll love it. In fact, why don't we take you to your homestead that way? I think it docks here in… two weeks' time."  
  
"That would be wonderful, but--" Ratonhnhaké:ton began.  
  
"We'll gladly pay for the tickets," Dobby said, leaning forward. "I doubt they'd make you pay for passage anyway, being the esteemed captain."  
  
"That wasn't why I--"  
  
"Two weeks is a bit short notice, I'm sure Connor has all sorts of business to sort out," Duncan interrupted. "So why don't we talk to Faulkner when they dock, and then we can have another couple of days to sort things out, and then head north afterward."  
  
"I appreciate your concern, but--"  
  
"I don't know if we can spare those few days. Time is short," Jamie said.   
  
"Maybe we shouldn't wait for the Aquila. Just head north in a week's time after explaining everything," Stephane suggested. "We should definitely explain everything first, it's why I arranged this meeting instead of a kidnapping."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton banged his mug on the table in exasperation. The noise was just loud enough to make the others stop arguing and look at him for a moment.  
  
"I cannot come with you," he said. "And you have explained nothing to me so far."  
  
"Connor," Stephane said, after a moment's silence. "You are in terrible danger. We are trying to save your life."  
  
"Then perhaps you ought to try explaining to me what this danger is? Or perhaps we could take a route north that does not take three weeks to return from? Maybe you could try answering my questions, rather than leaving me with more."  
  
He hadn't meant to sound so harsh. It was not fair, even if they were being irritating in their inability to listen to his objections.  
  
"You're right," Jamie said. "Sorry."  
  
The others apologised, too. The air had a sheepish, clumsy feel to it, and Ratonhnhaké:ton felt more than a little uncomfortable. He was almost glad that Thomas burst through the door a short time later, when Stephane was halfway through an awkward retelling of their first encounter. Though the story was certainly interesting, many things about it rang false, like his constant pauses and glossing over of details that seemed rather important, like what Connor had been doing in Boston in the first place.  
  
''Ey," Thomas slurred. "Wot's the 'old-up?"  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced at the clock in the corner. Quarter past three. He cursed himself inwardly for not paying more attention.  
  
"I met some friends," he said. "How did you know I was here?"  
  
"You seemed t' like this place las' time," Thomas shrugged. "Figgered some drunkard was given' you grief. Not like you not t' be early."  
  
"I am fine. I simply lost track of time."  
  
"I told 'Aytham you'd be back at 'alf free. We got to get a move on."  
  
"Oh," Ratonhnhaké:ton stood, setting down his pencil and paper. "Of course."  
  
He slipped the silver insignia into his pocket. His new allies were giving Thomas the strangest of looks, and Thomas himself had a rather odd expression on his face, that of deep contemplation.   
  
"It was a pleasure to meet you all. I shall be back again."  
  
Stephane gave him a tight smile and a nod, and the heavy silence that had fallen was not broken until Ratonhnhaké:ton and Thomas were outside, walking back the way they had come.  
  
"You oughtn't 'ang around wiv that lot," Thomas said, urgently. "I dint recognise the Frenchy before, but 'e an' the rest that was sittin' wiv you is bad news. Fort it were best to get us both out o' there before anyfin' bad 'appened. Your daddy ain't expectin' us back jus' yet, but 'e'll want t' see us for sure when he knows who you was talkin' to."  
  
"Bad news?" Ratonhnhaké:ton pressed, but Thomas said nothing. "What kind of bad things would have happened? What are you talking about?"  
  
"We ort t' speak wiv 'Aytham," Thomas said, and quickened his pace, only staggering slightly.   
  
"Speak about what?"  
  
"Yer in danger, Connor. Lots an' lots o' danger."

 


	8. Chapter 8

Ratonhnhaké:ton was swiftly dragged to his father's study, and Hickey would not explain further. How could he possibly be in danger? And from whom? Surely not Stephane and the others, they were allies, weren't they?  
  
"Mister Kenway!" Thomas hollered, banging on the door. "Somethin' important's come up! We got to talk, right now."  
  
Haytham opened the door, looking more than a little perturbed.   
  
"What is it?" he snapped, clearly displeased about this interruption. "I'm in the middle of something rather important."  
  
"Sir," Thomas said, urgently. "There's been a bit o' a problem."   
  
Haytham glanced from Thomas to Ratonhnhaké:ton, and back again. His brow furrowed in mingled confusion and anxiety.   
  
"Problem?"  
  
"The, er…" Thomas paused, thinking hard. "Connor 'ere met some pretty shady types from 'is past jus' now. I 'ustled 'im back 'ere soon as I recognised 'em."  
  
Haytham went very pale.  
  
"Do they know?"  
  
"Dunno, sir, best t' assume they know everyfin', innit?"  
  
Haytham nodded, and glanced at Ratonhnhaké:ton.  
  
"Thomas, alert John, Charles and Benjamin. We'll need to move quickly. Before nightfall, at the very latest."  
  
"Wot about--" Thomas began.  
  
"William and I are inspecting Precursor artifacts," Haytham interrupted him smoothly. "Connor, perhaps you can help us?"  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, and followed his father into the study. Sure enough, William was sitting in a chair. There were several items on the desk, one of them being a small chest.   
  
"What is the problem with the people I met?" he asked. "They seemed perfectly normal."  
  
Haytham hesitated before speaking, and gestured for Ratonhnhaké:ton to sit down. He sank into his   
chair, and closed his eyes for a second before answering the question.  
  
"I may not have been entirely honest regarding your past, Connor," he said. "You were involved with some very dangerous people, and some very suspect criminal activities. I had been hoping that perhaps I could keep you from your comrades and perhaps I could fix our family. What's left of it, anyway."  
  
Haytham glanced up to meet Ratonhnhaké:ton's eyes.  
  
"I'm so sorry for the deception. But you're my son and--" he sighed. "--I'm sorry."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton did not know what to think. He was a criminal? A murderer? A thief? That didn't feel right. Or perhaps it did, and he was merely horrified at his past crimes? No…   
  
Surely he could not be a criminal, he believed strongly in justice and equality-- oh, but what was that story, that English folk-tale… Robin Hood? Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor? When he had been told the tale, he had empathised with the character, who was trying to do the just thing when unjust lawmakers tried to line their pockets. Achilles had simply laughed when he'd explained, pleased that his pupil was more compassionate than the man who had sired him.  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked. Who had told him that story? Not Haytham, that was for sure. He concentrated on the memory of an old man's voice and candlelight on a dark night, but no names or faces came to him.  
  
This was no time to dwell on stories. Haytham's explanation made no sense. Why would people with honest careers resort to crime?  
  
"But… one of them was a priest," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "And another was a doctor. Surely--"  
  
"You think the Church is a pinnacle of human goodness?" Haytham let out a sharp bark of laughter.   
"Good God, haven't you learnt any history?"  
  
"In this land, most doctors are criminals," William added, mournfully. "Not like back in Britain-- not that I particularly wish to return, but you could trust people more. They had  _degrees_  and  _paperwork_."  
  
Haytham nodded in agreement.   
  
"Less extortionate prices, too."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton sat in silence for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better and closed it.   
  
"What are we going to do?" he asked, quietly. "You said Thomas ought to--"  
  
"We're going to go travelling for a bit. Head to the Frontier, I think. Maybe Philadelphia after a few weeks, or maybe Virginia. I have men who can distract your ex-friends while we leave, and--"  
  
"We are simply going to run?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, flatly. "Like cowards? Can we not talk to them?"  
  
"They are not the sort who can be reasoned with," Haytham said, firmly.   
  
"You are the one who told me to always seek diplomatic solutions," Ratonhnhaké:ton pointed out.  
  
"Sometimes diplomacy is wasted," Haytham's expression was hard, steely even. "We are leaving, Connor. Please don't argue with me on this. I'm just trying to protect you."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton wasn't pleased, but he nodded anyway. He only needed to play along for a few days, a week at most, and then he could sneak off while travelling and get back to New York in time to meet the Aquila when it docked, and he could get answers from the crew. It wasn't a brilliant plan, but it was a plan nonetheless.  
  
"All right," he said, reluctantly.  
  
"Thank you," Haytham said.   
  
There was a moment of silence, and William was the one to break it.  
  
"So, Ratonhnhaké:ton, about these artifacts…" he opened the small chest and took out a glassy orb. It had odd lines carved into it, and was about the size of a large apple. "This was found in an abandoned village. I'm not sure which nation it's from, perhaps you could take a look and tell me if you recognise the craftsmanship?"  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton did not bother pointing out that glass was mostly a European thing. Still, there was a small chance the orb was a carved stone, so he held out his hand, and Willam passed it over, carefully.  
  
It was heavier than it looked.  
  
He held it up to the sunlight streaming in from the window, and was almost blinded as the lines in the orb began to glow brightly.  
  
Images. Blood, snow, wolves, the insignia, fire, smoke, the sun, the insignia again.  
  
A woman screamed at him.  
  
"What are you doing?! Why have you not done as I ordered?!"  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton took a step back. This was not the study. This was a black space and the orb was still glowing and this was very very wrong.  
  
"You bring chaos!" she shrieked, her lovely face distorted by rage and her voice warped by something that made Ratonhnhaké:ton's blood run cold. "Seek the symbol! Do as I commanded!"  
  
"I… I do not--"  
  
"The symbol!"  
  
The insignia. The woman suddenly calmed, beautiful and serene, as though she had not been irate mere moments before.  
  
"Find the key, child. All will be well."  
  
She smiled, and Ratonhnhaké:ton found himself sitting in the study again. The orb rolled out of his hands and fell to the floor. William reached down and picked it up.  
  
"Careful!" he said. "This is one of a kind."  
  
"It-- it is cursed," Ratonhnhaké:ton stammered, heart racing. What was that vision? That woman?   
Why had she shown him those images?   
  
"Are you all right?" Haytham asked, concerned. "You look pale."  
  
"Cursed?" William asked.   
  
"It-- there was a woman and she shouted at me and I do not know why and it was something about a key and there was a symbol and--" Ratonhnhaké:ton forced himself to stop and take several deep breaths. He was safe, so long as he didn't touch that orb again.   
  
"Symbol?" Haytham asked. Ratonhnhaké:ton reached into his pocket, and found the silver insignia. He put it on the desk, and Haytham's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Where did you get this?"  
  
"The people I met, one of them gave it to me and--"  
  
"You didn't meet with them on purpose, did you?" Haytham leant forward. He seemed suddenly quite dangerous.   
  
"No, no, it was a coincidence," Ratonhnhaké:ton lied. "But that was the symbol. She said I had to seek it."  
  
"And are you?" William asked. His voice was light but something in the air had changed. Ratonhnhaké:ton was suddenly nervous.  
  
"I-- no! Are you insane? I want nothing to do with that orb or that woman! Only bad things can come from it."  
  
"Bad things?" William raised an eyebrow.  
  
"The orb is cursed," Ratonhnhaké:ton repeated himself. "The dwelling of an evil spirit, I am sure of it."   
  
"All right," Haytham said, and his voice was somehow cold. "Go and pack, please. I won't ask you to touch the artefact again."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton was glad to be freed from the dangerous atmosphere in that room.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Ratonhnhaké:ton packed the most comfortable, practical clothes he could find, he would probably spend a lot of time either riding or travelling by horse-drawn coach in the next few weeks. His father would probably insist Ratonhnhaké:ton left Achilles behind, but the kitten was a comfort he simply could not do without. Haytham might have begun to be more honest, but he still seemed to be hiding something. Stephane and the others had been kind, certainly, and they had seemed genuine enough, but they too had seemed not entirely honest. A cat, at least, held no secrets.  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed. It was silly, but… his belt did not sit right upon his hips. He felt on edge, somehow. He could not shake the feeling he was missing something. But that was a ridiculous thought, wasn't it? He had spare clothes and things to occupy himself, as well as his coin-purse. What else could he need for travelling? There was definitely  _something_ … Oh. A bow and arrow. He was a proficient hunter, wasn't he? Well, he assumed so- surely a novice couldn't kill a stag with a well-aimed arrow through the eye.  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton made a mental note to ask Haytham if he could borrow a weapon of some kind. If he was that skilled at archery, he could probably handle a musket or pistol sufficiently enough to not get himself killed.   


* * *

  
"No," Haytham said. "Why do you even want a weapon?"   
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton placed his trunk on the floor, and leant against the doorway. The housekeeper picked it up a moment later, taking it to the carriage before he could protest.   
  
"What if we are attacked?" he asked. "What if we are stranded? I am not asking for much. Did I not have a bow and arrow when Charles found me?"  
  
"Yes," Haytham admitted. "But it's broken. I'm not sure where the remains are. And I had to have the rags you were wearing thrown away. They couldn't be salvaged."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton raised an eyebrow. Haytham was  _definitely_  hiding something.  
  
"Well, then what about a pistol? Or a musket?"  
  
Haytham chuckled at this, and Ratonhnhaké:ton gritted his teeth. What was  _wrong_  with the man? He wasn't exactly an endearing individual, but he certainly wasn't caustic. This sudden change in personality was worrying, to say the least.  
  
"My dear boy, being an archer doesn't mean you can handle a gun! Look, if we pass by an artisan who sells bows and arrows, I'll pay for one myself. But be reasonable, lad, we've got to leave right now, and the rest of us don't have weaponry to spare. And even if we did, we're not so irresponsible as to give them to a complete novice."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton sorely wished to point out that he was actually quite experienced with weapons. He had to be, if he was really an outlaw, and even if he didn't remember much about combat, his body was clearly that of a fighter. He'd taken down those men at Stephane's inn, hadn't he? All right, they _had_  been drunk, but… his body had moved almost on it's own. On instinct.   
  
"I understand," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, sullenly. He understood just fine. Haytham didn't trust him. Admittedly that distrust wasn't entirely unreasonable, given Ratonhnhaké:ton's shady past, but considering Ratonhnhaké:ton could not remember said past and tried to be as honest as possible to Haytham, the knowledge his own father did not trust him was… well, it stung.   
  
Haytham sighed.  
  
"Don't sulk. Please just get in the carriage and behave."  
  
"I am not sulking," Ratonhnhaké:ton said curtly, before turning on his heel and making his way to the carriage, picking up Achilles on the way. Charles was already waiting there, a small black pomeranian bouncing excitedly around his ankles. Thomas was busy speaking with William, and John was nowhere to be seen.   
  
"Spado, down!" Charles hissed.  
  
"You got a new dog?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, trying not to think about Haytham's change of behaviour. Charles turned around, looking startled.  
  
"He had an injured paw when I took the others out," Charles explained, still looking somewhat nervous. "Er, this might seem like a strange question, but those people Thomas says you met…"  
  
"…Yes?" Ratonhnhaké:ton prompted, when Charles hesitated.  
  
"They didn't say anything, did they? About me, I mean?"  
  
"I do not believe so, no." Ratonhnhaké:ton cocked his head to one side, eyeing Charles intently. He didn't look particularly anxious, but Charles had a sly tongue. Was he hiding something as well? "Why do you ask?"  
  
"Those people don't like me very much. I was afraid they might have told you some unsavoury lies about me."  
  
"You mean… rumours?"  
  
"Yes," Charles nodded. "You know, they started a rumour recently that I wanted to kill George Washington! The very idea is ridiculous, of course, and George knew it to be false, but he's has to remove me from active duty and investigate. That's why I've been able to spend so much time with you and your father."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, though something in the tale seemed lacking. When he'd last spoken with Washington, the Commander hadn't wanted to believe the allegations against Charles, hadn't wanted to--  
  
\--he knew George Washington. How did he know George Washington?  
  
The Commander's mouth was always drawn into a grim line, though he always went out of the way to be polite, nodding to Ratonhnhaké:ton when he visited Valley Forge, letting the corners of his mouth quirk up in a grateful but exhausted smile. He always made sure to thank Ratonhnhaké:ton for… for…   
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton rubbed his eyes, frustrated. Achilles mewled, pawing at him comfortingly.  
  
"Are you all right?" Charles asked, looking rather anxious now. Haytham left the front door, deep in conversation with John and Benjamin, and locked the door behind him.  
  
"Headache," Ratonhnhaké:ton lied. He climbed into the carriage, and waited for the others to sort themselves out. There wasn't room for more than four people in the carriage, and two outside, driving the horses. Someone would probably need to ride behind the coach.  
  
Eventually, Charles and William climbed into the coach, and Haytham stuck his head through the door.   
  
"Connor, we're heading to Lexington, through the scenic route. Should be there be-- why do you have that cat? Put it back in the house."  
  
"Achilles is not negotiable," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. Haytham rolled his eyes, irritated.  
  
"That was an  _order_ , boy. We can't look after animals while we're travelling. The servants will take care of him."  
  
"I am not leaving him behind. Anyway, you do not seem to be complaining about Spado."  
  
Haytham gave Charles a fierce glare, and after a few very long seconds relented, though very reluctantly.  
  
"If it gets in the way, you're leaving it in the countryside. Understood?"  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton made a noncommittal noise that Haytham seemed to take as a 'yes, father'. He left, apparently driving the coach with Thomas, and Benjamin sat in the empty seat left.   
  
"John's riding ahead, getting our rooms for tonight ready, and planning the route for tomorrow," he explained, at Ratonhnhaké:ton's quizzical glance.   
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled his hat down over his face, and leant back as the carriage lurched forward. He stroked gently at Achilles' fur. This would be a long journey, and he was not in a particularly sociable mood.   


* * *

  
  
He drifted in a drowsy sort of half-sleep, almost jolted back to reality by the sound of the horses clip-clopping along. He was vaguely aware of the sunset, and of voices murmuring.  
  
"…think he'll remember soon? It'd be…"  
  
"--uch, Charles, Haytham knows what he's…"  
  
"…the Assassins. We can't allow…"  
  
"--der? He'd never agree! If he remem--"  
  
Someone shook him, urgently. Ratonhnhaké:ton cracked his eyes open, and pushed his hat back up onto his head. William seemed to be leaning over him. It was a bit hard to tell, considering the darkness that had fallen.  
  
"We're at the inn," he said. Ratonhnhaké:ton sat up straighter, Achilles curled up in his lap asleep. He scooped the kitten into one hand, and climbed out of the coach.   
  
"My trunk?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked… well, slurred would be a better word. His head was fuzzy from the not-quite-sleep he'd spent the last few hours in.  
  
"Thomas took it in for you," Haytham said. He patted Ratonhnhaké:ton on the back, jolting him a little further into wakefulness. "You must be hungry. We'll eat, then go to sleep, and then we'll be off again in the morning."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, and yawned.   
  
The hours trickled by slowly. Ratonhnhaké:ton wound up playing cards with Thomas and John after eating supper, losing every hand of every game. Although in all honesty that was more because he let Achilles choose which cards he played than having no skill.   
  
"I'd be a rich man if you was playin' wiv cash," Thomas remarked.  
  
"I am sure you would be," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. Achilles nudged one of his cards with his nose, and Ratonhnhaké:ton tossed it on the table.   
  
"Letting your cat play isn't a very effective winning strategy," John remarked, sipping his ale.   
  
"I am not playing to win," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. "I am playing to pass the time."  
  
"Winnin's the best bit o' takin' part," Thomas said, finishing his tankard.  
  
When Haytham retired to bed and politely suggested his son ought to go to sleep too, Ratonhnhaké:ton obeyed, mostly because he really didn't have anything better to do than try to sleep again. 'Try' being the operative word. Perhaps that nap on the way to Lexington had been a bad idea…  
  
Or rather, perhaps it had been a good idea, considering Ratonhnhaké:ton could hear the sounds of a lock being picked over the quiet snores and even breathing of Benjamin and Charles.  
  
He climbed out of bed, slowly, grateful that he hadn't bothered to undress further than his boots and jacket. He crept to the door, picking up one of the swords leaning against the wall. He positioned himself against the hinge, so as to be behind the door when it opened.  
  
He waited, with baited breath, half-wondering why he wasn't trying to wake Charles and Benjamin up. They were his allies, right? He ought to wake them up, it would make more sense to face the intruders together.  
  
No, it wouldn't, he thought suddenly, bitterly. They had killed his mother.  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton had no time to wonder where that strange thought had come from (she was killed in a fire, wasn't she?) before the door swung open, and someone stepped into the rented room.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not very good at doing things on time, am I?

The person did not step forward enough for Ratonhnhaké:ton to see who they were from his position behind the door.   
  
"I don't think he's here," the person- a man- hissed, and his voice sounded familiar. He wasn't one of the men from earlier, though. Someone else swore quietly in French. Unless Ratonhnhaké:ton was very much mistaken, that was Stephane! What was he doing here?  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton thought hard for a moment. Why would there be people following him and searching for him? Even if what Haytham had told him was true, that he was a criminal, then surely his ex-colleagues ought to simply let him be. After all, he could not remember anything. Unless this was some sort of attempt on his life, to ensure he would never be able to remember their past crimes and go to the gendarmerie and the city watchmen? But that made no sense, they could have killed him earlier. Perhaps this was some sort of interrogation attempt?  
  
Stephane had mentioned, back at the inn, that he'd arranged their meeting in lieu of a kidnapping. So… the meeting earlier today (or was it yesterday? There wasn't a clock in the room) hadn't gone as Stephane had hoped, and this was either some sort of ill-thought-out rescue attempt or he really was being kidnapped.  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton gritted his teeth. All this lying and hiding things… it was getting  _ridiculous_.   
  
"Check the windows, he might've left that way. I shall tell the others of our misfortune."  
  
"Yeah," the man on the other side of the door said, and Stephane left, soft footsteps padding away. As soon as the intruder stepped forward enough that he was clear of the door, Ratonhnhaké:ton closed it softly, and held the sword so the tip rested threateningly against the nape of the man's neck. He stilled immediately.  
  
"What is your name?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, quietly.   
  
"Clipper," the man said, with a moment's hesitation. "Connor, you--"  
  
"Ssh," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Why are you here?"  
  
"We came to save you. You're in terrible trouble."  
  
"From what?" Ratonhnhaké:ton resisted the urge to laugh. This was insane. There were two groups of people, each trying to 'save' him from the other, and he didn't trust either of them.  
  
Clipper hesitated.   
  
"Please, sir, not now. Please let's just get out of here and go and then we'll answer all your questions, no lies or half-truths or anything. I promise, swear on my life, sir."  
  
That certainly did sound tempting. And he did want to trust Clipper, something about him seemed honest, and, as with Stephane and Smithy, he gave off a 'blue' sort of feeling. On the other hand, he wasn't suicidal. Running off with a complete stranger while completely weapon-less was a stupid idea at best, especially if they were part of his less-than-legal past. But… if he were to play along a little, Clipper might slip up and tell Ratonhnhaké:ton what he wanted to know.  
  
"Let me get my boots on," he said, removing the sword. Clipper visibly relaxed. Ratonhnhaké:ton watched him as surreptitiously as possible while he buttoned his boots. Clipper was young, possibly younger than Ratonhnhaké:ton himself, though his face was marred by anxiety. He put his coat on and scooped up the still-sleeping Achilles. The breathing and snoring of Benjamin and Charles stayed even, and he could hear the beginnings of a light rain outside.  
  
Clipper didn't look surprised at the sight of the kitten, and quietly opened the door. He lead Ratonhnhaké:ton downstairs, to the bar. There was a sleeping drunk and a tired-looking barman still awake. The barman nodded to them, politely, and Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded back.  
  
"The others'll meet us just outside," Clipper said. "Should only be a minute or so."  
  
"I want answers," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. Clipper looked torn.  
  
"All right," he said, after a moment. "You probably noticed your father's friends and us don't really get on."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded.   
  
"We're sort of… different political ideologies," Clipper said, slowly. The words fell from his mouth clumsily, like he was used to words less complicated. "We are the Brotherhood. We believe in freedom and equality. They are the Order, they believe in order and equality."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton raised an eyebrow. That seemed a trite difference. Surely it would be better to simply work together for the common goal? Clipper noticed his expression, and winced.   
  
"I know… it sounds stupid. But they're dangerous. Ruthless. The ends justify the means. And we're not. I mean, we do kind of horrible things sometimes, but because we have to."  
  
"Horrible things like attempting to kidnap men with amnesia?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. Clipper sighed, sadly.  
  
"I'm real sorry, sir. And I know I haven't properly answered your questions but please trust me. That's all I'm asking. If you hear us out and decide you don't want to be part of it, we won't be upset. Please, I am begging you, trust me. Just 'til dawn."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded. He'd get his answers, and decide what to do afterwards. With any luck, he could be back here before his father realised he was gone. Clipper looked relieved, and opened the front door.  
  
"We need to get somewhere safe," he explained, at Ratonhnhaké:ton's quizzical expression.  
  
"Safe?"  
  
"Well… neutral, at least. Away from your father." Clipper glanced back, and gave him a pleading look. "You want answers, right?"   
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, and Clipper lead him to an already-saddled horse. Ratonhnhaké:ton stowed Achilles in a large inner pocket of his coat.  
  
"We'll need to share, I'm afraid. I only got ten minutes notice to come here, and the others had a hard time following you here with so little time and resources." Clipper climbed up, and offered Ratonhnhaké:ton a hand to pull himself up with.  
  
"Where are we going?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. He took the hand gingerly.  
  
"Duncan's set up camp west of here, near Valley Forge. It's a couple of miles away, but it'll be secure enough 'til we get back to--"  
  
"Ah! You found him! We need to go!" Stephane shouted, bursting through the door. "Dobby and Jamie left out the back! I'll catch up!"  
  
Clipper spurred the horse into action, and Stephane dove out of sight. Ratonhnhaké:ton almost lost his balance, and had to grip Clipper tightly about the waist to avoid falling off the horse.  
  
"Oi!" Thomas' voice echoed loudly, behind them. Ratonhnhaké:ton chanced a glance behind him-- Father was there, too, half-dressed and mounting another horse. A musket ball hit the ground just left of the horse, and the sound of the gun firing was deafening in the peaceful silence. They rounded a corner and sped over a bridge.   
  
It took a few moments for Ratonhnhaké:ton to fully process what happened, and longer still for him to find his tongue. Achilles was squirming in his pocket, obviously frightened. He winced at the terrified whines the cat made, though Achilles did settle down a little when he stroked through his coat reassuringly.  
  
"We ought to stop," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Explain ourselves."  
  
"Your father ain't exactly a diplomat, sir," Clipper replied, driving the horse into the forest. Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced back again. Haytham was nowhere to be seen, though that was mostly because of the trees rapidly obscuring his view.   
  
"He will listen to me," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, desperately. He'd wanted answers, yes, but the look of desperation on his father's face as he'd climbed into the saddle-- well, he hadn't wanted  _that_ , even if Haytham was a liar and a fraud.  
  
"He won't, sir," Clipper said, grimly. He swerved past a large outcropping of rock and into a field of full-grown wheat. The horse neighed in protest, and Clipper patted it in apology.   
  
"He will!" Ratonhnhaké:ton argued.   
  
"With all due respect, sir, you don't know what's going on. I do. So please just  _trust_  me, like you promised!"   
  
They emerged from the wheat dishevelled, bits of broken stalk and loose kernels in their hair and clothes. Clipper drove the horse toward a large hill, dotted with trees, curving their path to the north. The rain began to fall faster and harder, muddying the ground.  
  
"Where are you going? You said we were going to Valley Forge!"   
  
"Sir, I ain't much of a frontiersman," Clipper sounded frustrated. "I don't know this bit of land well, but I was planning to navigate after we lost your father."  
  
"We  _have_  lost him!" Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "He is nowhere to be seen!"  
  
"All right, we'll stop," Clipper replied, slowing the horse gradually. "I have a map in the saddlebag, get it out for me, will you? Darcy needs a rest, anyway."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton complied, and they came to rest near a small cliff overlooking a waterfall. There was a small pool that the horse gladly drank from. He took Achilles from his pocket, and put him on a large rock beneath a tree that provided adequate shelter from the rain.  
  
"If we head… uh… that way--" Clipper pointed east. "We should come to Valley Forge…. or Packanack."  
  
"You will reach the sea," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, flatly. He perched on the cliff edge and looked down at the river rushing below. It was beautiful. When he'd left his village for the first time, it had been terrifying. But now it helped to calm him, to make him think. "West is the other direction."  
  
"Oh…" Clipper said. "Uh… is that your memory coming back, or…?"  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton shrugged. All right. He remembered leaving his village for the first time. Now, why had he done that? Where had he been going? How long ago had that been?  
  
…Wait. From Haytham's stories, he had come to live with his father when he was very young, about four or five. But he'd been older than that-- he couldn't remember how much older, but older all the same-- when he'd first left the village.   
  
He gritted his teeth. Why would Haytham lie like that? What would it gain him?   
  
"Found you!" Charles Lee's breathless voice came from behind him. Ratonhnhaké:ton spun around.  
  
 _Found you…_  
  
 _"So I can find you!"_  
  
 _Cold eyes like ice boring into his soul hands too tight around his throat savages dirt animals can't breathe_  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton stumbled backwards at the sight of those same pale eyes, though this time wide with worry than narrowed in hatred. He barely had time to register that he was falling before he hit the water of the plunge pool, and everything dissolved into darkness and bubbles and a suffocating pressure.


	11. Chapter 11

  
Ratonhnhaké:ton tried to fight the urges to breathe and flail. He'd get scraped up badly by the riverbed, and he'd need his strength to fight his way to the surface of a calmer part of the river. The pool beneath the waterfall was a churning mess of harsh currents and rib-cracking pressure, and he could see nothing. To be honest, he wasn't even entirely sure which way was up and whether his eyes were actually open.  
  
It felt like hours passed before the water dragged him over stone and sand. With the last of his energy (who knew that simply staying still and holding one's breath could tire one out so much?) Ratonhnhaké:ton pushed off the bottom of the riverbed, and took a deep lungful of water and air as he reached the surface.   
  
He choked and coughed, trying to regain his breath and keep from slipping back under the surface of the fast-moving water. Still choking, he clutched at a large rock half-submerged in the river, just about managing to pull half his body onto land.   
  
When he'd finally spit most of the water onto the rock beneath him, he crawled further up the riverbank, wincing at how much everything hurt. He'd have bruises for weeks, he was sure. He was alive, though he was also completely lost.  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled himself upright gingerly. His clothes were heavy and cold, and it was a chilly night for autumn. He'd need to find shelter and try to dry out as much as possible if he wanted to avoid getting sick. He glanced around, deciding to look for a cave in the rocky cliff face not too far before him. He could try to find Clipper or attempt to meet with Duncan and the others when he was in less danger of catching ill, or even freezing to death if the weather got worse.  
  
He found several small alcoves, which were either too small for a man his size to fit into, or were unsheltered and muddy. Eventually, however, he found a cave that appeared to have been excavated at some point, to form a large, winding tunnel. Ratonhnhaké:ton padded through it, wondering if he was warming up or whether the chill from the air and water was numbing him.   
  
He could see faint, flickering light ahead. Someone else was evidently using this cave as a shelter as well. If he was polite and offered his help, they would probably be happy to let him dry himself and rest before setting off to Valley Forge.   
  
"Hello?" he called. It would not do to surprise the inhabitant of the cave. He was in no state to defend himself if necessary. He stepped into a large, dry cavern, and tried to discern if the man tending the fire was a threat. He seemed to also be Native American, wearing Kanien'kehá:ka clothing. Ratonhnhaké:ton cleared his throat, and tried speaking again, in his mother tongue this time.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
The man stopped poking at the fire, and glanced around. He looked familiar to Ratonhnhaké:ton. The man smiled, welcomingly, and replied in the same language.   
  
"Ratonhnhaké:ton! It has been a while." He glanced Ratonhnhaké:ton up and down, and let out a small chuckle. "I take it you have been swimming again? Clearly your adventures with the Colonists are simply not exciting enough."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled back, trying desperately to recall this man's name. He was familiar, very much so, and he could vaguely remember hunting with him a long time ago. If he tried really hard, he could sort of recall playing hide-and-seek with a small child that looked like the man in front of him.   
  
His name…  
  
His name was…  
  
"Kanen’tó:kon," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, sitting beside the man he was sure he'd been friends since childhood with. "I am in dire need of your help."

 


	12. Chapter 12

  
Kanen’tó:kon cocked his head to one side, obviously confused.   
  
"Ratonhnhaké:ton? What is it? What has happened?"   
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton hesitated. It sounded ridiculous, everything that had happened to him. Kanen’tó:kon probably wouldn't believe any of it. But he needed Kanen’tó:kon's help, if he were to survive.  
  
"There was an accident," he said. Well, he hoped it had been an accident, he didn't know what had actually happened. Kanen’tó:kon's eyes widened, and he leant forward, concerned.  
  
"An accident? Was it at the homestead? Is Achilles all right?"  
  
"I do not know," Ratonhnhaké:ton admitted. "I can hardly remember anything. Now there are people after me and I do not know who I can trust and I need to be at Valley Forge by dawn, but I fell in the river and--"  
  
Kanen’tó:kon interrupted him.  
  
"Ratonhnhaké:ton! Slow down!" He cast a critical eye over Ratonhnhaké:ton's sodden clothes, and gestured for him to stand. "Look at you. You need to get dry, and you need to eat and drink something. Take off those clothes, I have some spares that should just about fit you. I will get some more water, and make tea, then you can gather your thoughts and tell me everything."  
  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded. He started to pull at his buttons with hands that didn't seem to want to work properly, as Kanen’tó:kon rummaged in a large satchel. Kanen’tó:kon placed a rolled-up pair of deerskin pants, a matching shirt and one of the furs that had lain on the floor as a makeshift bed beside Ratonhnhaké:ton. Then he left.  
  
It took Ratonhnhaké:ton longer than he would have liked, with half-numb fingers, but he managed to peel the wet clothes from his skin and pull on the dry clothes instead. He draped the garments over some large, relatively clean rocks at the cave wall, and wondered whether he ought to build a small fire, to dry them faster.   
  
"Sit down, Ratonhnhaké:ton," Kanen’tó:kon ordered, putting a pot of water on the fire to boil. "What happened?"  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton wrapped the fur around him, and sat next to Kanen’tó:kon.   
  
"I do not remember the accident," he said. "I do not remember a lot of things. The doctor who attended to me after the accident said that I might never regain the memories I lost."  
  
"How bad is the memory loss?" Kanen’tó:kon asked. He was a good listener, only asking questions when Ratonhnhaké:ton did not go into enough depth for him to understand what was happening.   
  
"I am not sure," Ratonhnhaké:ton admitted. "But it is worst between the time of the accident and when I left the village for the first time. I remember almost nothing between then."  
  
Kanen’tó:kon's jaw dropped.  
  
"That is almost a decade," he said, looking horrified. "You were fourteen when you left, and you are twenty-one… no, twenty-two now."  
  
"Before that is largely a blank, as well. I do not even remember the day my mother died. I only found out she was dead because my father told me."  
  
Kanen’tó:kon bit his lip, obviously disturbed.   
  
"Why did you not return home? We could helped you."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed, sadly. So his father had lied about the village being burnt-out ruins. He'd known for a while that must be the case, but he hadn't wanted to believe it.   
  
"Father said the village was naught but ruins. That it had burned completely to nothing but ash, killing everybody."  
  
"You believed him?" Kanen’tó:kon's voice was disbelieving. He put some herbs into the boiling water.  
  
"I did not know any better. He would not allow me to leave the house alone, and the only people I could speak to were his friends. Until recently, that is."  
  
"Ratonhnhaké:ton, this is bad. There is a lot you do not know. I… I have no idea where to begin."  
  
"Do you know anybody who might be able to help explain everything? The people who helped me escape father, they are camped a little outside of Valley Forge. Maybe you could… maybe we could go to them, and if you recognise them we can stay with them a while. And if not, maybe there is somewhere else we could go?"  
  
"You have a ship," Kanen’tó:kon said, brightening up. "The Aquila. We can--"  
  
"--it docks in New York in two weeks. They are returning from the Carribbean."  
  
Kanen’tó:kon's face fell. He poured a wooden bowl of tea, and handed it to Ratonhnhaké:ton.   
  
"Oh," he said. "You live a little north of Boston, most of the time. The villagers there may be able to help you. I do not know if Achilles is still alive. It has been a long time since we last spoke."  
  
"Achilles is definitely still alive," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Duncan, I think, he said Achilles was sick. Who is Achilles?"  
  
"You forgot--?!" Kanen’tó:kon began, then stopped. "Ah. I almost forgot for a moment. You know nothing, but you still speak and act more or less like you always do. It is… jarring."  
  
"My apologies," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I do not mean to--"  
  
"No, it is fine," Kanen’tó:kon said. "It's nearly stopped raining, and it should be clear for a few hours after. We can rest here for another half hour or so. Do you have a horse we can use?"  
  
"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I did, but I fell in the river after I got off it."  
  
"Then we'll walk," Kanen’tó:kon said, decisively. "It should only be a few hours. I could explain some things on the way."  
  
"We need to stay away from the roads," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, hurriedly. "My rescuers and my father's friends are still looking for me."  
  
"We shall go through the trees, then," Kanen’tó:kon said. "Do not look so worried, you are the one who taught me how to climb. If we take regular breaks, it should not be hard to get to Valley Forge about sunrise."  
  
"How long do you think we have?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.   
  
"Perhaps four hours or so. It is only a few miles," Kanen’tó:kon yawned.   
  
"We could stay here and sleep if you prefer," Ratonhnhaké:ton offered. Kanen’tó:kon was probably on his way home from a meeting of the confederation. He'd probably been preparing to sleep as Ratonhnhaké:ton walked in. How late was it, anyway? Two in the morning? Three?  
  
Kanen’tó:kon shook his head.  
  
"It is fine. I would not be able to sleep, anyway."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton gave Kanen’tó:kon a grateful smile.  
  
"Thank you," he said, glad that he had such a loyal friend.


	13. Chapter 13

  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton swung with all his strength, catching himself on the next branch awkwardly. He pulled himself up, then leapt across to the next tree, shimmying around the trunk, then down a nearby pile of boulders to the ground.   
  
"Kanen’tó:kon, please tell me we are nearly there," he managed, panting heavily. Kanen’tó:kon stumbled as he landed, nearly knocking Ratonhnhaké:ton over.  
  
"We are," Kanen’tó:kon replied, equally out of breath. "It should be across these rivers and a little further southwest."  
  
"It should be safe to use the roads now," Ratonhnhaké:ton mused, aloud. If Stephane's associates were in the area, it would make sense that they would be watching out for him, especially if Clipper had managed to find his way to them (unlikely, given his brilliant sense of direction). He hoped that Charles and Clipper had put their differences aside, but given the ridiculous turn of events thus far, it seemed unlikely.   
  
Kanen’tó:kon nodded, understanding what he meant. He lead Ratonhnhaké:ton southeast, up a grassy verge.  
  
"If we do not find your friends, we could go to Valley Forge proper. You are good acquaintances with two of the commanding officers there. They may be able to help us find the camp."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned.  
  
"I doubt it. The camp must be well-hidden, or it would have been discovered already." He had taught Duncan better than that. "We should keep an eye out for secret signs to lead us to the camp. Valley Forge is a last resort. It might be a safe place, but we will find little help there."  
  
"Secret signs? What kind of secret signs?"  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton bit his lip, trying to think.  
  
"I am not sure," he admitted, after a few moments. "If I saw any, I am sure I would know."  
  
"That is not very helpful, Ratonhnhaké:ton," Kanen’tó:kon sighed.   
  
"It is better than nothing," Ratonhnhaké:ton said.  
  
"Not much," Kanen’tó:kon replied, and they walked on in silence, reaching the road after only a few minutes. "I would have thought it would have been easier to just go straight back to Achilles."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't know exactly what to say to that.   
  
"He is a stranger to me," he said. "What would I say? I did not even know he existed until earlier tod-- no, until yesterday."  
  
That wasn't a lie, but it wasn't entirely the truth either. He'd named his kitten after the mysterious Achilles, hadn't he? Some small part of him remembered.  
  
"I promised Clipper I would trust him until dawn. They will be expecting me. After all the trouble they have gone to, I owe them this much."  
  
"Sometimes I think you are too honourable, Ratonhnhaké:ton," Kanen’tó:kon sighed, patting his friend on the shoulder. "Now, you had questions?"  
  
"Who is he? Achilles, I mean."  
  
Kanen’tó:kon was quiet. When he eventually spoke, it was with a tone of regret.  
  
"I do not know him well enough to answer that. I could tell you how you met." Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, and Kanen’tó:kon continued. "Just before you left the village, you were shown a vision by the spirits. They told you to seek a symbol."  
  
"A symbol? Was it a little like an inverted 'V'? Or an upside-down triangle?" The symbol on the riverbank. The insignia Jamie had given him. The images the cursed spirit had shown him. That symbol was the key to all this?  
  
"I think so," Kanen’tó:kon nodded. "Anyway, the spirit showed you where to go, and it turns out Achilles lived there. A big house in the middle of nowhere. It overlooks the sea. It's quite nice, for a colonist settlement. You bugged him for several days before he relented and started to teach you. You tried to explain it to me before. That symbol represents a particular group of people."  
  
A group. So Clipper had been right, when he spoke of different ideals and opposing groups?  
  
"Assassins," Ratonhnhaké:ton murmured, using English. The word… it seemed right, somehow. Fitting.  
  
"Assassins? Don't they kill people?" Kanen’tó:kon asked, clearly confused.   
  
"I… I'm not sure…" Ratonhnhaké:ton muttered. "Please, carry on."  
  
"You said the group stood for freedom and justice. Freedom from those who would oppress our people. From those who oppress women and the poor. From slavery and greed. You were away a lot, doing things-- I do not know what they were-- but Achilles was always kind to me, and offered me a meal and a roof over my head if I came to see you when you were not there."  
  
"What was he like?"  
  
"He was quiet, a little bitter. He cared about you more than he cared about himself. Or at least that is how it seemed to me. Even when he thought your plans were stupid, he still tried to help you. Like when you tried to kill the man trying to buy our land. Uh… William Johnson, I think. Achilles laughed at you, but he sent you to people who could help you."  
  
"William Johnson?" Ratonhnhaké:ton stammered. Surely it could not be the same William Johnson?  
  
"Yes. A British man. Or Irish, I am not sure. He had a beard and a Shawnee cloak. He speaks a lot of our languages. I think he was a translator at one point for the British. You didn't succeed in killing him, though. He learnt his lesson and stopped trying to steal our land."  
  
"I think he knows my father," Ratonhnhaké:ton murmured, confused. If he had tried to kill William, why would he have been so kind while Ratonhnhaké:ton had been living with Haytham? Why would his father have allowed him to stay with him? "He was nice to me."  
  
"I do not like the sound of that," Kanen’tó:kon said. "Are you sure it is the same Johnson?"  
  
"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton admitted. "But how many bearded translators for the British named William Johnson can there be?"  
  
Kanen’tó:kon was silent again.  
  
"Perhaps your friends will know," he said, finally.  
  
"Perhaps," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. They walked in silence for a few minutes more, before something caught Ratonhnhaké:ton 's eye. It was a piece of red cloth, hanging in a thorny shrub, as though it had been torn. Somehow, it seemed important.   
  
He took a closer look, lifting it from the thorns as far as he could without tearing it. On the underside, there was an ink drawing of the insignia. Actually, looking at the cloth, it was pushed far enough into the shrub as to be almost protected from the elements. Nobody who was not looking for it would notice it; people tore their clothes all the time, and it was only a tiny square of cloth.  
  
"Kanen’tó:kon, I think this is the sign I was talking about."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing chapters where not very much happens. I'm sorry this was so late, but now that this is out of the way, the rest of the story should be written on a much better schedule. In case any of you were wondering, at the moment it looks like this will stretch to around twenty five or thirty chapters.

  
There was another small piece of cloth in a bush not more than thirty metres from the first. Ratonhnhaké:ton observed their surroundings carefully. Even though dawn was breaking, he could not see any more pieces of cloth. Why were there so few markers?  
  
All right, it would be daft to have a trail leading straight to the camp. Any enemies that had seen the clues would be able to find them. So… the second cloth was a clue as to the direction the camp was in? Yes, that seemed right.   
  
"Kanen’tó:kon, this way," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, pointing. Kanen’tó:kon nodded, and followed him southward. Presently, they came across a large hill in the thicker parts of the forest, one side of which was a small cliff. There were several horses munching on grass before the cliff, which had a lot of scrubby greenery growing on it, and would have seemed completely inconspicuous if not for the fact the horses were still saddled.  
  
"I don't think this is the place." Kanen’tó:kon said. "The horses probably ran from a farm."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton patted and pushed at the plants growing over the earth, until he came to a place his hand went straight through. A hidden cave.  
  
"They must be here," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, pushing the leaves aside. The entrance was narrow enough that it could be more or less hidden by plants, but it was large enough that even a man as bulky and tall as Ratonhnhaké:ton could pass through without problems. He ducked through the greenery, and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Kanen’tó:kon followed him.  
  
Like the cave Kanen’tó:kon had been sheltering in, this cave also seemed to stretch for quite some distance, around a corner if he wasn't imagining the faint firelight painting one wall.  
  
"Come on," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, and started walking. After a moment, he heard Kanen’tó:kon's footsteps behind him.  
  
The cave, as Ratonhnhaké:ton had thought, did open into a cavern, this one smaller than the one Kanen’tó:kon had been resting in. A very small fire burned in the centre, and the cave continued on through the opposite wall. Perhaps this had been some sort of secret passage, or a smuggling tunnel.  
  
Two men lay curled next to the fire, a woman- Dobby- poking at the embers with a weary expression.  
  
"There you are, Connor. We were wondering when you'd turn up," she said, without looking up. Ratonhnhaké:ton had not been as silent as he'd thought, then. The men sleeping by the fire- Stephane and Duncan- began to stir.  
  
"I fell in a river," he replied lamely, in English. "This is Kanen’tó:kon. He is from my village."  
  
Dobby turned her head, and her brow furrowed.   
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"We have been best friends since childhood. He would never betray me."  
  
Dobby nodded, though she looked unconvinced. She looked harder at the two of them, and frowned.   
  
"Where's Clipper?"  
  
"I do not know," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, honestly. "We stopped on cliffs overlooking a river and started planning how to get here, but Charles Lee appeared and I… I fell in the river."  
  
"Charles Lee?" Duncan sat up, suddenly wide awake. Stephane and Dobby seemed just as shocked and anxious.  
  
"You do not think that Clipper was captured, do you?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, meekly. He knew the answer.   
  
"If Kenway has him…" Stephane muttered.   
  
"You think my father would harm him?" Ratonhnhaké:ton shut his eyes, trying to sort his muddled thoughts out. Even if his father and his friends had opposing ideologies, surely they could not be so different that violence could be provoked?  
  
"Or worse," Duncan said, darkly. "We need to get to Achilles, form a plan of attack."  
  
"Attack?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, alarmed. "Would it not be simpler for me to simply ask Father to spare him?"  
  
"No, we can't lose you again," Dobby said, urgently. "You have to see Achilles first. He's practically withering away from grief. That's why Jamie's not here, you see."  
  
"Clipper won't be killed right away," Stephane interjected. "It's more likely that your father and the others will attempt to use him to manipulate us all."  
  
"All the more reason to go to Achilles, then," Duncan snapped. "Jacob will have just gotten back, we can plan then."  
  
"Plan what? A fight? We can reason with the Templars!" Ratonhnhaké:ton argued.   
  
"We can decide what to do when we get to Davenport," Dobby said, with an air of finality. "Connor's right, we probably won't need to fight at all."  
  
"Fine," Stephane said. Duncan nodded, and Ratonhnhaké:ton, feeling outnumbered, nodded too. He could always leave and warn Haytham if the plans turned into something sinister, and he did want to meet Achilles.  
  
"Ratonhnhaké:ton, you did not mention any 'Templars' when we were talking earlier," Kanen’tó:kon said, slowly, in halting English. "Are you hiding something from me?"  
  
"Templars?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. True, the word did give him a bad feeling, images of death and destruction, but he didn't remember bringing it up in conversation. "I do not recall--"  
  
"You said it," Duncan frowned, deep in thought. "Your friend is right, you did say 'Templars'."  
  
"I did?" Ratonhnhaké:ton rubbed his eyes tiredly. "What is a Templar, anyway?"  
  
"How can you not…?" Stephane began, utterly bewildered. His face brightened only moments after. "Oh, I see. Your memory is trying to come back. Jamie said it might be fragmented."  
  
"What?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. He was tired, and whatever was going on simply didn't make any sense. He wished that they would just get on with whatever it was that had been agreed upon.  
  
"Tell me about the Assassins, Connor," Duncan said, seriously. "That symbol Jamie gave you. What can you remember?"  
  
"I am not sure…" Ratonhnhaké:ton muttered. "The symbol stands for freedom. Not simply from oppressors, but… Nothing is true. Everything is permitted. Are assassins not killers for hire? Do I know any?"  
  
Dobby rubbed a thumb over her lips, thinking hard.  
  
"You remember bits, but they're not fitted together…"  
  
"We can work with that," Stephane murmured. "Connor, we will explain everything we can on the way to Davenport. Kan… Kannon…"  
  
"Kanen’tó:kon," Kanen’tó:kon supplied, looking disgruntled. "Kanen if you really cannot pronounce it."  
  
"Kanen," Stephane continued, clearly grateful. "You can come too if you want. I daresay we could use an extra pair of hands."  
  
Kanen’tó:kon nodded.   
  
"It has been a long time since I last spoke with Achilles," he said.   
  
"Good," Duncan said. "We only have two horses between five people, though."  
  
"I could borrow one from Valley Forge," Ratonhnhaké:ton offered. "I am told the commanding officers there hold me in high esteem."  
  
"They do," Dobby said, after a moment. "One of us ought to come with you, though. The others could wait by a nearby farmhouse."  
  
"If you went with me, we could probably get another horse and some supplies," Ratonhnhaké:ton said.   
  
"I doubt it," Duncan shook his head. "The supplies going to Valley Forge have been scarce lately. It's thought to be some sort of sabotage, but neither the army nor we have enough resources spare to investigate."  
  
"But we could still get a second horse," Stephane said. "They'd be grateful for one less mouth to feed, I should think. Dobby, the farmhouse you're talking about is the one to the north, yes?"  
  
Dobby nodded.  
  
"We'll meet you there in an hour," she said. "Come on, Connor."  
  
Ratonhnhaké:ton followed her from the cave, giving Kanen’tó:kon a nod to verify that yes, trusting these people would be in their best interest for now. He hoped that after all this trouble things would finally be made clear to him.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this has taken! RL has been busy and writer's block struck in the worst possible way. OTL

The journey to Valley Forge was fairly uneventful, taking little more than fifteen minutes. Dobby was quiet, and though the silence was uncomfortable, Ratonhnhaké:ton did not try to break it. He had no idea what to say. They had no problems getting to the camp: Dobby seemed to know where she was going, and even if Ratonhnhaké:ton could not consciously remember the way, his legs seemed to have no problems walking a route they had used often in the past.

The soldiers standing guard at the entrance to the military camp gave Ratonhnhaké:ton a nod, after a brief moment of confusion.

"I need to speak with the Commander," Ratonhnhaké:ton said to one.

"Nearly didn't recognise you wi'out your hood," the soldier replied. "He's in his tent."

"Which one is that?" Dobby asked.

"Big blue one," the soldier replied. "Can't miss it. Haven't seen you here before, miss...?"

"I work for Mister Kenway," Dobby gave the man a frosty smile, gesturing to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Thank you."

They walked on, up the steep hill, past the jagged palisades jutting out of the earth at haphazard angles.

"You don't bluff often," she said, nodding in the direction of the only blue tent in sight. Two men stood outside it, talking. "Too honest. But you're good at it."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, and cleared his throat, walking toward the men as purposefully as he could.

"Commander?"

One of the men outside the tent turned his head, and Ratonhnhaké:ton found he recognised him. George Washington. Though the exact details of their previous encounters were mostly a blur, the Commander was always respectful and grateful for Connor's help.

"Connor?" the Commander's brow furrowed. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. "I am afraid I cannot divulge all the details to you just yet. My companion and I need to borrow a horse. Two horses, if possible. I will explain everything later."

Washington exchanged glances with the man he had been speaking with, and nodded.

"We have a few steeds spare. We need them back in two days' time," he said, pausing for a moment. "Is your problem something I can help with?"

"Just allowing us the use of your horses is help enough, Commander," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. Washington nodded.

"Then I wish you the best of luck. Lafayette, if you'll take them to Richards?"

"Of course," the other man replied. He smiled at Ratonhnhaké:ton and Dobby. "This way, if you please."

* * *

It took less than half an hour to reach the farmhouse, sort the horses, and then resume travelling. As there were still only four horses between five people, Dobby, as the lightest and smallest of the group, shared the strongest horse with Duncan, the skinniest of the men.

"You promised me an explanation," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, once they had settled into a relatively comfortable, though still efficient pace.

"Name something you don't understand, and we'll do our best," Duncan replied.

Ratonhnhaké:ton thought for a moment. There were many things, but the most important at the moment was why the Assassin and Templar factions were fighting in the first place. Perhaps if their differences were not irreparable…

"Why the violence?" he asked. "Clipper said there were two factions, and that they wanted very similar things. Why are we not working together?"

Duncan looked uncomfortable, and Dobby seemed to be concentrating especially hard on the road.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "You seemed to think the Templars were evil and could not be trusted."

"Oh? Tell me more," Ratonhnhaké:ton said.

That was worrying. How could he have been so narrow-minded, unable to see his own father and friends as complex human beings? Had they done things that were really that unforgivable? Or was it that the men he had come to like and respect were just fronts, illusions designed to lull their enemy into a false sense of security?

"I don't know exactly what happened, but you didn't get along with your Da at all when you first met each other. And you have bad history with Charles Lee. Achilles might be able to tell you more, you've always confided in him."

Charles Lee. Bad history.

In truth, Ratonhnhaké:ton had hardly thought about what made him fall from the cliff after seeing Charles. He remembered the sensation of cold fingers squeezing his throat and those friendly blue eyes scowling down at him in sadistic fury. Charles' voice, normally so amiable and calm, hissing and spitting the most disgusting of insults and racist opinions.

He had been young.

Ratonhnhaké:ton bit his lip hard, trying to jerk himself out of that particular train of thought. If he was remembering right, then how could Charles have been so kind and friendly to him? Why had that happened? …Come to think of it, hadn't Charles been rather snappish at the beginning?

"Are you all right?" Kanen'tó:kon asked, in Kanien'kehá:ka. Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded in an attempt to reassure his friend, and Kanen'tó:kon looked unconvinced, though he did not try to press Ratonhnaké:ton further.

"How did we meet?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked next. At Duncan's confused expression, he clarified. "You and I."

Duncan seemed happier answering this question, and Dobby visibly perked up.

"Oh, I was sitting in a bar in Northern Boston…"

* * *

It wasn't until they were nearing the mountain pass that Stephane and Kanen'tó:kon assured him would take them to Davenport, that Ratonhnhaké:ton found himself growing uneasy again. Dobby and Duncan had explained in lavish detail how they had come to meet Ratonhnhaké:ton and how they had decided to join his band of freedom fighters (though they were still very reluctant to tell him anything of said group aside from the identity of all eight members).

The path overlooked a beautiful waterfall and bay, where a small homestead was founded on the far side. Ratonhnhaké:ton could not see the main house of the homestead for the thickly wooded hills, but he knew what it looked like. A wooden manor, painted to look like brick, a large storehouse nearby. The lawns were lush and green, marred only by the bloody bodies of dead Native elders…

"That is where William Johnson lives," Kanen'tó:kon said, noticing Ratonhnhaké:ton's worried expression. "You tried to kill him to save our people."

William- yes, his father's friend- had struggled, and it was only because Ratonhnhaké:ton had allowed his rage to get the better of him and ranted at the man for his avarice and blatant racism before activating his hidden blade and plunging his wrist down that someone else entirely had been able to stop his arm and wrench him backward.

Ratonhnhaké:ton tightened his grip on the reins. He wondered if his father were sitting in that house at that very moment, discussing how to get him back, hypothesising whether his memory had returned or not. Or perhaps they were elsewhere, torturing poor Clipper, whose only crime (as far as Ratonhnhaké:ton knew) was to want to help his friend and mentor escape what he had thought (perhaps rightly) was a difficult and dangerous situation.

Thinking about such things would not help Clipper, nor would it help Ratonhnhaké:ton himself. He concentrated on keeping himself upright in his saddle: it had been a long, sleepless night, full of too many surprises. He had to stay awake.

"No wonder you always run away here," Stephane murmured, as they neared a cliff edge. Ratonhnhaké:ton gaped at the sight. Several acres of forest and meadow were encompassed by cliffs and mountains. A strong river flowed through the stunning landscape, which seemed to itself be the top of a cliff overlooking a small but perfectly formed bay. There seemed to be a small settlement, small but clean and serviceable cottages settled on the land.

"You and Achilles live in the big red-brick manor right over there," Duncan said, pointing. Past the large village- a rather wholesome-seeming place- there did seem to be a larger house, right on the cliff edge. It was too far away to see properly, but something about it seemed familiar.

They descended the cliff path quickly, but it felt like a terribly long time to Ratonhnhaké:ton. His heart beat fast. The answers he sought were close, so close…

The town was just as wholesome up-close as it had seemed from the cliff.

"Nice to see you, Connor," one man said, as the group trotted past. "Been a while."

Most people here in Davenport gave Ratonhnhaké:ton a kind smile and a friendly nod when he passed. In New York, he had been the subject of attention, certainly, but not the affectionate sort. Narrowed eyes and suspicious glances, because 'half-breeds' ought not be trusted. This change was more than welcome, and he could not have stopped himself smiling back if he'd wanted to.

Soon, they rounded the uphill bend of the road which lead up to the manor. Yes, it did look familiar, but he was sure it had been more run-down, more dilapidated. The window-frames had been dirty and cracked, several tiles missing from the rooftop. The stables had been barely useable.

There was a tight knot in Ratonhnhaké:ton's stomach. Soon, he'd meet Achilles. The man he had heard so much about, but could not quite remember. If he thought hard enough, he could remember a voice. Old, aged, a little crackly. Soft, somehow, like a father's ought to be.

His hands shook as he hitched his horse in the stable and Stephane offered to be the one to fetch water and oats for their steeds. His knees felt weak as he walked to the back door, Dobby and Kanen'tó:kon right behind him. His heart hammered in his chest as he tested the door handle. The door swung open easily, showing a spacious entrance hall, where an old man wearing a hat was rearranging some papers on a side table. He looked up, his expression shifting from weariness to that of a man who did not know whether to laugh or cry.

Ratonhnhaké:ton cleared his throat.

"Hello," he said.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for how long this has taken, writer's block is a terrible thing. I'll be updating on a much more regular schedule from now on, but next week I'm away from home, so unfortunately the next chapter isn't going to be up before july.

  
The old man took a few tentative steps toward Ratonhnhaké:ton. 

"It's true," he murmured. His voice was crackly and weak with disbelief, his eyes sharp enough to make Ratonhnhaké:ton feel as though he were being stripped to the bone, everything in his head on display for all the world to see. Or rather, one man who might as well be the whole world.

"You are Achilles?" Ratonhnhaké:ton managed to ask. He was, he must be. This manor had looked forbidding from outside, and though the interior looked completely unfamiliar, something about it simply screamed 'home'. The smell of the air, the way light travelled through even this small part of the house, the slight echo in this room.

The mouth of the man who must be Achilles opened slightly, his eyes widening and eyebrows twitching into an unfathomable expression for a split second. The man nodded, composing himself quickly. 

"Not as much of a hero as the legend, I'm afraid," Achilles said, a sudden grimness in his mouth and the set of his shoulders. "If you don't already know, you're my… student."

"I know," he replied, hoarsely, even though 'student' didn't seem to be quite the right word. "They-- um, Stephane and the others-- explained a lot of things on the way here."

Achilles gave him a solemn nod, and began to move toward the kitchen. 

"Then I suppose I'll have to explain the rest. Sit down. You travelled most of the night, didn't you?"

"Yes," Ratonhnhaké:ton answered, following Achilles. He turned one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table around so he could lean comfortably on the back. 

"It's good to see you again," Achilles said, to Kanen'tó:kon, who inclined his head politely before taking a seat next to Ratonhnhaké:ton.

"Before we do anything, you need to know that the Templars have captured Clipper," Dobby said. "He didn't arrive at Valley Forge and Charles Lee happened across him and Connor before they were separated."

"Separated?" Achilles frowned.

"I fell in a river," Ratonhnhaké:ton admitted. 

"We think they took Clipper to Johnson Hall," Duncan added, hanging his cloak up in the hall. 

"We'd better make this quick, then," Achilles muttered. "How much do you already know, Connor?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton hesitated before answering. He wasn't sure how much of the information he had fitted together, but he tried his best. He started at the beginning, or what he thought was the beginning. 

"My father and his associates are members of an organisation which seeks to impose control and order on the greater population for the sake of peace. I am part of an opposing organisation which seeks freedom and choice, also for the sake of peace. When I left my father, at Clipper's request, they chased us, seemingly to get me back. I do not know why they appear to need me, or why they did not harm me while I was with them."

"You were with them? For how long?" Achilles' eyes were sharp and alert, and even had Ratonhnhaké:ton been so inclined, he did not think he could have lied to him. 

"Charles Lee found me when I lost my memory. I've been staying at Father's house in New York for the past two months."

Achilles scowled. The back door opened, and Stephane entered.

"New York. The one time we have almost nobody there…"

"We were trying to fill in for the duties you would've done," Dobby explained, helpfully. "Otherwise, me, Jacob and Jamie live there."

"I was working at that tavern to gather information on the illegal activities of the owner," Stephane added, sitting next to Kanen'tó:kon. "Good luck, eh?"

"Yes, it was," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. Achilles said nothing, but still looked intently at him. Ratonhnhaké:ton cleared his throat. Obviously more was needed.

"It was not anything of great importance. Simply celebrating that they were all alive and in good health and were in New York at the same time."

"Why were you there?" Achilles asked.

"I am not sure," Ratonhnhaké:ton confessed. He rubbed his eyes, tiredly. He'd just thought Haytham was being irritating, in the way family members were supposed to be. But with the information he had now, Ratonhnhaké:ton could not help but wonder if perhaps there was some kind of nefarious purpose behind his father's apparently harmless actions. There had to be, if they really were enemies.

Achilles said nothing, and Ratonhnhaké:ton tried again.

"That is, my father simply seemed to want to make me feel included. I had told him some time previously that I felt as though his associates were avoiding me, and did not particularly want me around. And earlier that day he said some very cruel things to me, so I thought he was trying to cheer me up and make amends."

"What kind of cruel things?" Achilles leant forward slightly, brow creasing a little more.

"Nothing that was not true. That it did not matter whether I was intelligent or dressed well, I would still be treated like a 'savage' wherever I went. He worded it rather harshly and I was upset."

Achilles' expression softened. 

"You aren't a savage to anybody here," he said, quietly. 

"I know," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, reassuringly. "The townsfolk were smiling and waving at us when we passed through."

"They're good people," Achilles' lips pulled up in a small smile. "You helped most of them a great deal."

"Oh?"

"That's a tale for another time, Connor," Achilles shook his head. "Needless to say, you're very popular here. The crew of your ship are equally besotted with you. Should be returning from their voyage in a week or two."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, and fought the urge to yawn. He'd gone nights without sleep before, but never such eventful nights. Rooftop-leaping, running from guards, infiltrating camps… an hour or two of concentrated action, not eight or more of confusion and panic and prolonged activity.

"We're getting distracted," Achilles sighed. "Connor, what happened just before you fell in the river?"

"Uh…" Ratonhnhaké:ton thought hard. "I was on horseback with Clipper, and we were fleeing from my father and his associates. We stopped at a clearing overlooking a waterfall, and planned to rest before heading to Valley Forge, but Charles Lee happened across us. He startled me, and I fell off the cliff."

"Amnesia clearly hasn't helped your co-ordination," Achilles muttered. He thought a moment, then continued. "You're probably right in that they've gone to Johnson Hall to interrogate Clipper. More resources, unlikely to be stumbled across by some unlucky bystander, mercenary guards. We'll need to plan carefully to avoid more casualties."

More? Was Achilles referring to his memory loss, or had someone lost their life in this conflict? Ratonhnhaké:ton opened his mouth to ask, but Achilles spoke before he could begin.

"Connor, you go to bed. You've been travelling all night and you'll be useless in helping Clipper if you're half-asleep. I might not be able to walk without a cane, but I can plan better than you even on your best day. Kanen, you're welcome to sleep in the guest room for a few hours if you need to."

Kanen'tó:kon nodded and thanked Achilles politely. Ratonhnhaké:ton hesitated. Was Achilles simply trying to get rid of him? Something about what he had just said seemed… off, somehow. Did they think he was a Templar?

"Kanen can show you which room is yours. It's in need of a good dusting, but I put new sheets on your bed last week," Achilles said, fixing Ratonhnhaké:ton with a firm stare that clearly meant 'do as I say right now, young man, or face the consequences'.

Ratonhnhaké:ton inclined his head, and rose. He hadn't realised how tired he was, but now that he stood, he felt faint. Even if it was just a ruse to get him out of earshot, some sleep would do him good.

"Come on," Kanen'tó:kon said, and lead him to a sunny room upstairs, at the front of the house. Kanen'tó:kon gave him a soothing pat on the shoulder before walking down the hall, toward a door on the opposite side of the house. 

Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't hear any murmuring of voices downstairs, so perhaps he was just being paranoid. He opened the door quietly, and the room beyond was… right. It was familiar, homely. The decorations on the walls were all from his clan, he recognised that much. The blanket on the bed was one he remembered being wrapped in as a toddler. 

He took his boots off, gingerly sitting on the bed, then lying on it. It was more comfortable than the bed at Haytham's house, even though the mattress was harder, the sheets scratchier. It was comfortable in the same way old shoes were, like he spent so many years sleeping on this bed, in this room, that it was what his body considered 'perfect'. 

As Ratonhnhaké:ton closed his eyes, realisation struck. 

This was home. This house was his home. The old man downstairs, as cranky as he was, was someone close to him. His mentor, like he'd said. No, more than that, a… a grandfatherly figure? That didn't seem quite right, but it was the closest Ratonhnhaké:ton's sleep-deprived brain was going to get. He let himself relax, and his mind drift into gentle slumber.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an apology for the really long wait, and the shortness of this chapter, you get an extra long chapter next time. which should be uploaded on tuesday, if everything goes to plan. :)

He runs through the forest, smoke obscuring his sight. Something is wrong but Mother will know what to do. She always does. She will be able to help. She will make things right, like always, with a kiss to his forehead and an embrace from her strong, warm arms. 

He sprints as fast as he can toward home, only to nearly fall when he sees the flames. 

There is more fire than he has ever seen in one place before. Mother always used to shoo him away from the fire she cooked upon, would make him sit further from the main village fire than he wanted to. 

"It is hot," her voice echoes in his head, through the trees and the branches. "It will hurt you. If we are not careful, it will destroy our home."

He'd had nightmares about this before but the fear from the dreams do not compare to the horror of the reality.

He sprints past the burning entrance, dodges falling wood and the heat is far away, like a memory of a long time ago. It hurts, but it's as though someone else is being singed and burnt by sparks and white-hot ash. 

He screams for Mother until his voice gives out. She must be here, right? Is she safe? 

Her voice replies, after too long, faint with smoke inhalation.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton!"

And again, she calls his name. He doesn't know where to go, because the voice is being drowned out by the Spirit of the Treasure and different voices, these ones warm and familial. Brothers and fathers. His name. Again and again and again and again.

Someone grips his shoulder, shakes roughly.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, it is time to wake up."

Ratonhnhaké:ton turns around, opened bleary eyes to see Kanen'tó:kon leaning over him. He was not standing in a burning village, but lying in his bed. It took a moment to remember: his bed, his home. Not Haytham's house, but Achilles'. Speaking of his mentor, he was standing just behind Kanen'tó:kon, leaning on his cane.

"I'd hoped your amnesia would at least sure you of your inability to wake up, but it seems I was being too optimistic on that front," Achilles said, but Ratonhnhaké:ton could tell that despite his caustic tone, he was not actually irritated.

"What is the time?" Ratonhnhaké:ton croaked.

"About an hour before noon," Kanen'tó:kon replied. 

"Get up and dressed," Achilles said. "You need to eat. And drink something, by the sound of it."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, lurching up and off his bed. Kanen'tó:kon's lent clothes did not fit well enough that he'd be able to fight in them. And as much as Ratonhnhaké:ton hated to think about fighting Haytham and the men he had come to think of as friends, he hated the thought of Clipper dying for his sake much, much more.

Kanen'tó:kon smiled at him reassuringly as he made to leave the room after Achilles. 

"Do not look so worried," he said. "They might not be able to pronounce our names, but they are good people. Trustworthy."

"I was not worried about that," Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "I was just thinking."

Kanen'tó:kon nodded, hovering in the doorway.

"About your father?"

"I do not understand why he would lie to me," Ratonhnhaké:ton stretched, feeling the slight discomfort in his limbs and back fade into nothing. "I suppose I will have answers by the end of today."

Kanen'tó:kon stayed quiet.

"I shall see you downstairs," he said. There wasn't much more either of them could say.

Ratonhnhaké:ton made a noise of agreement, and turned to the wardrobe. He wasn't quite prepared for the amount of clothes stuffed into the small space.

* * *

 

 Ratonhnhaké:ton made his way downstairs, having been able to find a set of clothes that seemed… right. Grey-brown breeches and waistcoat, with a thick, formal-looking navy longcoat and a white shirt. He'd found a hat that more or less matched the coat, as well as a pair of comfortable boots and some hardy fingerless gloves. The coat had some sort of attached belt, with useful pouches and holsters, so he'd be able to equip himself with some small surprises. He'd wanted to wear the deerskin shirt and leggings of his clan, but there would be little protection against the elements or anywhere to hide darts or a lock pick set 

"Out of curiosity," Achilles said, giving Ratonhnhaké:ton a critical look when he finally entered the kitchen. "What happened to the robes you were wearing the night you had the… accident?"

"Robes?" Ratonhnhaké:ton thought hard. He'd been wearing white, hadn't he? Stained with blood and dirt and god-knows-what-else. "Uh… I think Father said he'd had them burned. Too torn and stained to salvage, or something."

"I see," Achilles said, in a way that indicated he did not see at all, and was actually rather irritated at this information. "Well, I'm sure you're curious as to the plan to retrieve Clipper."

"Yes," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, sitting down on a backward chair again. Oddly enough, Kanen'tó:kon was the only other person in the room. The assassins had left, presumably to prepare.

"You're not going," Achilles said. "The others left half an ago, and they'll be back in about another hour, at most. They're sneaking in, searching the property, and leaving when they've freed Clipper."

"What?" Ratonhaké:ton  managed, feeling as though he'd been punched in the gut.  They'd be killed. They didn't know his father or Johnson, or the others. They had no excuses if they were caught there. 

"I shouldn't have made you go to New York in the first place," Achilles said. "You going to Johnson Hall would be suicide."

"But the Templars trust me," Ratonhnhaké:ton argued. "They know me!"

"But _you_ know nothing," Achilles snapped. "Tell me, even if I were to fully arm you, would you remember all the strategies I taught you? The many unconventional ways to use certain weapons? Could you patch yourself up well enough to get back home when you get hurt? Do you really think you'd stand a chance against the six deadliest men in this entire country?"

"I can still remember how to fight," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, sullenly. "Clipper is there because of me, I have reasons to be on Johnson's land if I am caught. I would be of more use alone than--"

"Than three fully-trained assassins? Who have their memories completely intact, and all their weaponry? Don't be so arrogant," Achilles hissed. His demeanour had suddenly changed. He was not merely irritated, he was absolutely furious. "That arrogance nearly cost you your life, and for far too long a time, I thought it had! You are not putting yourself at risk needlessly! You will not follow the others, you will not try playing the master of manipulation at his own game, and you will certainly not nearly get yourself killed again!"

"Achilles, I--" Ratonhnhaké:ton began, hesitantly. He hadn't realised, stupidly hadn't realised, how so many months of being assumed dead had affected Achilles. How had he not thought about it before now?

"Fine!" Achilles threw up his hands in exasperation. "Fine! Do what you will! Clearly you cannot be saved from your own idiocy! But remember two things, Connor. I am not going to be there to save you when it all goes wrong, and I will not bury another son."

Achilles strode from the room with remarkable strength for a man his age, deaf to Ratonhnhaké:ton's timid attempts at reasoning. Ratonhnhaké:ton turned to Kanen'tó:kon, dejected. 

"Does that happen often?"

"More often than either of you like. You're two very strong personalities."

Ratonhnhaké:ton paused a moment. Kanen'tó:kon had been very quiet earlier, hadn't he?

"Did you know what Achilles had planned?" 

"He woke me just before the others left," Kanen'tó:kon admitted. "I thought you should hear his plan from his own mouth. He's right, you should stay here. You barely know who you are, it is better for you to remain here, among friends."

"I cannot do that," Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "Please, stay with him. Make sure he does not worry himself sick."

"You always were stubborn," Kanen'tó:kon's mouth twitched. "Fine. I'll stay. But you have to promise to come back."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, gratefully. 

"Thank you," he said. "Could I borrow your dagger, in case I need it?"

Kanen'tó:kon rolled his eyes. 

"You've borrowed everything else of mine…" he muttered, handing the sharp little knife over. Ratonhnhaké:ton stowed it in one of the small sheaths on his belt, hidden behind his lapels. He glanced at the door Achilles had disappeared behind, wondering if perhaps he should try to make amends. No, best not. That would be better to postpone until after he came back with Clipper and the others in tow. He went to the stables, to fetch a horse.


	18. Chapter 18

It was surprisingly easy to find the road leading to Johnson's house. Ratonhnhaké:ton had considered going over the water, but Johnson's patrolling mercenaries had muskets and he didn't have time to borrow a boat from a resident of Davenport.

"Oi! Stop!" one of the men blocking the entrance to Johnson's homestead shouted, as Ratonhnhaké:ton drew closer. He swung himself off his horse, and took a few slow steps forward, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

"I am here to see Mister Johnson," he said. "I believe my father, Haytham Kenway, is here as well?"

The guard who had spoken looked suspicious.

"Name?"

"Connor."

The speaking guard nodded to one of the others, who sprinted down the track, rounding the corner and vanishing behind the trees and sloping land.

"Just got to check that," the guard said, eyeing Ratonhnhaké:ton suspiciously. "Couple years ago we had one of them Indians try to kill everybody on this little patch of land."

"I assure you, I am attempting to do no such thing," Ratonhnhaké:ton gave the man a strained smile. Was the guard warning Johnson, rather than verifying his story? Would his father- would the Templars accept him, if he spun a tale about actually being kidnapped by the Assassins? Would they order him to be shot on sight instead? Were Stephane and the others in trouble? Or would his coming here somehow give them away?

"Then you'll have no problem waiting for a minute, will you?" the guard said, acidly.

After a few minutes, the messenger came back, a serious-looking Charles Lee in tow. Charles brightened visibly at the sight of Ratonhnhaké:ton, though he did not relax.

"We thought you'd left us for good," Charles said, after politely greeting him. He gestured that they ought to begin walking to the main house, and so the pair began to make their way slowly down the road.

"I am so sorry to have worried you," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, in his most sincere tones. He wasn't lying, not exactly. He did feel guilty for betraying his father and his new friends in such a way. It was just… he did not feel guilty for seeking out the truth, just that he did so in a way that did cause so much trouble for the men who had apparently helped him. "I can explain everything, I promise. Is Father here? I should speak to him first."

"He's with Johnson, doing-" Charles hesitated for a fraction of a second. Before meeting the assassins, Ratonhnhaké:ton would not have noticed. "-business. They're just finishing up."

"Precursor artifacts?" Ratonhnhaké:ton guessed. Charles nodded, after a minuscule hesitation. "Not the cursed one again, I hope…"

"Cursed one?"

"Father asked me to look at an orb that looked like glass. It had an evil spirit dwelling within."

"Oh, in case it belonged to your, er, tribe?"

"It did not belong to my village," Ratonhnhaké:ton clarified. It had looked similar to the Clan Mother's treasure, but it could not have been the same object, Kanen'tó:kon would have mentioned if it had been stolen.

"I see. What makes you think that the spirit was evil, by the way?"

"She shouted at me, and told me to seek a symbol that has brought me nothing but trouble," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, shortly. They drew closer to the house, and it was jarring to know that the fresh green grass outside had once been littered with corpses and that the beautifully painted exterior of Johnson Hall had once been splattered with the blood and viscera of the elders of Ratonhnhaké:ton's nation.

"The symbol wouldn't have happened to be… er… a bit like an upside-down heart shape, would it? Or a stylised teardrop?" Charles bit his lip, and turned the heavy handle on the front door.

"Yes, I believe it was. How did you know?"

"Oh… just a guess," Charles chuckled, a tad nervously. He stepped through the threshold quickly and opened another door, peering in. "Sir?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton did not hear exactly what was replied, but it was definitely Haytham's voice. He knew he shouldn't be nervous: all that had happened was easily explainable and understandable. He wouldn't feel sharp steel against his throat again, nor would he look into cold and impassive eyes. Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head, and hoped those images weren't memories.

Charles nodded, and looked back at Ratonhnhaké:ton.

"Go on."

* * *

The room seemed to be Johnson's library. Haytham sat in an armchair near the fireplace, and didn't look up when Ratonhnhaké:ton closed the door behind him and cleared his throat. He sipped from a china cup of tea, apparently unconcerned.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here," Haytham said. His voice was mild, but he seemed tense somehow.

"I promise I can explain everything," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I ought not have agreed to comply with those madmen, I simply thought that if I humoured them, they might leave us alone and I could then resume my investigations after explaining the situation to them."

"Oh?" Haytham said, refilling his cup. "I assume there was a reason as to why you neglected to share this with me before running off?"

"They snuck into our room and held a pistol to my head," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. It wasn't exactly the truth, but it would have to do for now. He had a bad feeling that telling the complete truth now would make things worse than they already were. "I did not wish to get hurt, nor did I wish to attempt to wake Benjamin and Charles and possibly have them hurt, too. I promise you, Father, my intention was to return as quickly as I could, preferably without you even realising I was gone."

Haytham's lip curled at the last part. Clearly that was the wrong thing to say. Ratonhnhaké:ton continued, hoping that he could appease his father's suspicions. 

"I wish there had been another way, but at the time I could not see any other solution to our problem. I am back now, and that is all that matters, isn't it? They were mad, and I escaped them, and I came here as soon as possible, thinking that this was the most likely place to find some way of contacting you again."

"Where are my manners?" Haytham muttered, as though to himself. He looked up, waved at the armchair opposite him. "Please, sit down. Drink something. I daresay you've had a long journey."

"Thank you, Father," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, hoping that his father's watchful eye was merely paranoia on Ratonhnhaké:ton's behalf rather than any actual suspicion on his father's part.

"I must ask: why do you think your kidnappers are mad?"

"Oh, you would laugh if I told you about their delusions…" Ratonhnhaké:ton said, hoping that he wouldn't have to elaborate. He'd not seen any of the assassins, perhaps they'd already left, Clipper in tow? If they had, they'd been remarkably efficient about it, since none of the men he'd met so far seemed agitated, as though their prisoner had escaped.

"I daresay I could do with hearing something funny," Haytham pressed, the small smile he gave his son not quite reaching his eyes.

"Fine," Ratonhnhaké:ton shrugged. Best, then, to play off what had been told to him as an unbelievable joke in bad taste. It helped somewhat that a part of Ratonhnhaké:ton prayed fervently that was the case. "They seemed to think I was the leader of some sort of rebel cult. The, ah… Assassins, I believe they said. They seemed to think you were part of a rival organisation, hell bent on killing me. Which is ridiculous."

"Quite," Haytham said. His expression, though neutral, somehow seemed… dark. There was a discrepancy somewhere, then. Ratonhnhaké:ton wracked his brains. What had he missed?

"You changed your clothes," Haytham said.

Damn!

"I got lost," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. "I fell in a river, found the others of the group the man who held me at gunpoint had been associated with, and after I escaped from them, I found myself in a village some way north of here. The people living there were very kind and gave me some spare clothes, and gave me directions here, when I explained my situation."

Haytham nodded, apparently satisfied.

"I do not think that they will come after me any more," Ratonhnhaké:ton added. "Are we going to go back to New York?"

"I need to stay here a few days," Haytham said. "But if you'd like, you can go back now with Charles, as long as you take your cat with you. It's been eating all the meat in the kitchen and hissing at everybody. Thomas got a rather nasty scratch from it."

"Did he? I apologise. Where is he, by the way? And the others?"

"Thomas is with William," Haytham replied. "They're just straightening out a few problems."

Did that mean that Stephane and the others had been caught?

"Problems? Am I the cause? Should I go help them?"

"No, no, it's fine. They're perfectly capable of handling a few animals themselves," Haytham replied. "I can have a servant bring in some coffee if you'd prefer it? Or is there something else you'd rather drink?"

"No, I am fine," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I used to hunt for the clan as a teenager, I can help them. If they require more than one man to handle the-"

"Connor, I said it's fine," Haytham snapped. "For once, just do as you're asked and accompany Charles back to New York."

Haytham was definitely hiding something. Ratonhnhaké:ton would need to investigate. He didn't come all the way here just to go back to New York.

"Can I not eat first?" he tried. "It has been well over twelve hours since I last ate."

Haytham's expression softened slightly.

"…All right. I should have thought of that. I'd suggest you could sleep here for a few hours- I doubt you rested at all last night- but you could nap in the carriage. I'm sure Charles could find something in the kitchen for you both."

"Thank you, Father," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, smiling politely. He rose, and found Charles waiting outside the door. He would not be surprised if the man had been eavesdropping.

* * *

Spado was waiting in the kitchen, apparently having made the closest thing a cat and dog could have to friendship with Achilles. Ratonhnhaké:ton patted them both, and picked Achilles up. The kitten seemed happy enough to see him, nudging his fingers with his nose.

"I don't know where the cook's gotten to," Charles muttered, rummaging through the pantry. "There's no way to make sense of the order she keeps this place in. I'm sure there must be logic somewhere…"

If he was going to escape, and try to help the assassins, he needed to do it now. This was probably the only chance he was going to get.

"Charles, I need to use the privy," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, loudly. "I will be back in a few minutes."

Charles peered back into the kitchen.

"Do you need me to show you where it is?"

"No, I think I saw it while we were walking here from the main road."

"That's for the guards-" Charles began.

"It shall suffice," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, politely but firmly, already halfway out of the door. "I will not be long."

He walked, purposefully, in the direction of the blockade, before rounding the corner of the house. There, he took cover in a large shrub, and thought hard. He had not seen any trouble when he had been approaching from the mountain pass leading to the homestead, so William and Thomas were almost certainly near the house, if not in one of the two outbuildings. They couldn't be in the house itself, wooden houses tended to carry sound between rooms rather well. He would have heard them. So, the most logical places to investigate first were the stone block houses to either side of the hall.

However, actually getting to the houses… that was a problem in itself. While the patrolling guards would not give him a second glance, should Charles or Haytham spot him, he'd be in trouble. He didn't know where Church or Pitcairn were, either, but wherever they were, they were probably on the lookout for him.

A thought occurred: why not simply dress as one of the mercenaries? That way, when Charles realised he wasn't actually using the privy as he'd said, he'd have an extra few moments in which to hide should anybody see him. If his skin was paler, he might go completely unnoticed in the uniform.

It was only a matter of minutes before a guard came strolling down a nearby path. Moving from cover to cover, Ratonhnhaké:ton was quickly behind the man, ready to strike.

"I am very sorry," Ratonhnhaké:ton said.

"Huh?" the guard asked, starting to look over his shoulder, as Ratonhnhaké:ton's hands clenched around his throat. He was unconscious in less than a minute, and it was quick work to steal his uniform, and empty his satchel to put Ratonhnhaké:ton's current clothes in. It was lucky that there were so many trees on Johnson's land, getting dressed in a bush would've been difficult. His hat (which made him think of the sea) was difficult to fit in the satchel, but any damage could be fixed by a tailor at some other point.

Once re-clothed, Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled the hat low over his face, and held the guard's musket close. It was loaded, luckily, so if something went wrong he'd have a shot to defend himself with. Then, he kept his head down and slowly meandered around the closest outbuilding, stealing glances through the windows. Something about this outbuilding seemed important, but Ratonhnhaké:ton could not put his finger on exactly what it was.

He tested the door; surprisingly, it was unlocked. He listened carefully before opening it. There didn't seem to be anybody on the other side.

The room within the building was large, a storehouse for various Native artifacts, it seemed. There were numerous pieces of art from both the Iroquois Confederation and also from tribes not affiliated with any others. As much as Ratonhnhaké:ton would have liked to take a closer look at some of the pieces from his nation, he needed to try to find the others. There were two small staircases in the corner, one going up and the other down.

…Down. Down seemed right. Though it would be easier to escape if an enemy came up from behind him if he were at the top of a staircase, his instinct had not let him down before. 'There's always a first time', a particularly nasty corner of his brain said.

He shook his head. He would be quick, and if all else failed, a musket shot to the leg would allow him to escape if things got nasty.

He descended the stairs as silently as possible, stopping about a third of the way down. Yes, there were people in the lower warehouse. He descended a few more steps. The one he could see most clearly looked like a worse-for-the-wear Clipper, while Duncan and Jamie were also sprawled on the floor, apparently unconscious. All had bindings around their wrists and ankles. Presumably, Dobby and Stephane were in the other outhouse, or had escaped.

There weren't any guards in this room, which meant they must be upstairs. He'd need to be quick, in case they decided to check on their prisoners. Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced about: this room was pretty much bare, aside from a table and some chairs. A meeting room, perhaps?

"Clipper!" he hissed. "Are you all right?"

…On second thoughts, it didn't really make sense for the guards to be two floors away from their captives. A better setup would have been for guards to be stationed on the ground floor, the captives split across floors with several guards standing watch over them.

Clipper glanced up, through swelling, bruising eyes. He seemed to do a double take when he saw Ratonhnhaké:ton approaching.

"Sir?"

"A good thing I came when I did," Ratonhnhaké:ton muttered, examining Clipper's bindings. His wrists were rubbed nearly raw from the rough rope, and the knot was unnecessarily complicated. Kanen'tó:kon's knife would see some use, then. He put down the musket, and took the dagger from his belt.

"What are you doing here?" Clipper whispered, as the knots were slowly cut away. He seemed nervous.

"I was worried."

"Sir, you need to get out of here now," Clipper hissed, looking desperate. "They set up a trap for Jacob, not realising he's in the French colonies up north right now."

"Trap?" Ratonhnhaké:ton's stomach dropped. Damn.

"Well, well," a familiar drawl came from behind him, and footsteps scuffed the ground some three or four yards away. "Wot 'ave we got 'ere? Looks to me like a tricky German bastard, come to get 'is arse kicked."

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked back, to the stairwell. There Thomas stood, a cocky grin plastered across his face. He truly was a man of many talents if he could sneak up on Ratonhnhaké:ton so easily, on creaky stairs no less.

Thomas' grin faded.

"Thomas, what is the meaning of this?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. If he could talk his way out, somehow…

"You ain't supposed to be 'ere," Thomas frowned. Not looking back, he called to a mercenary who was presumably at the top of the stairs. "Jenks, mate, you go fetch some 'o the other lads. Mister Johnson and them lot."

Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced around. The windows did not appear to open, were barely big enough to fit a baby though, and were so high off the ground that even if he did fire his musket without being shot by Thomas, who was unholstering his pistol, he could not have escaped that way. Presumably, there were more guards upstairs than simply the ones descending the stairs to provide protection for their superior. Even if he managed to beat them without weaponry, he couldn't free Clipper and take Jamie and Duncan back to Achilles, much less find Stephane and Dobby, before 'Johnson and them lot' arrived.

In short, he was trapped.


	19. Chapter 19

Ratonhnhaké:ton took a step backward, as Thomas aimed his pistol at him. The four guards behind him raised their rifles, warningly.

"What are you doing?" he managed. "What is happening here?"

"I reckon I should be askin' you that, mate," Thomas replied, levelly. 

"Father said you were having trouble with animals, and I got worried," Ratonhnhaké:ton stammered. It wasn't completely a lie. Telling the full truth, and revealing everything he knew… well, that could only end badly. "I used to hunt for the village when I was younger, and I thought that perhaps I could help. I did not know where you were, so I checked here first, and I found this. People tied up."

Thomas' mouth twitched, and he snorted. 

"Yer a crap liar."

"What?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, feeling his stomach drop. This wasn't supposed to happen! Thomas was supposed to nod and drop the damned gun! 

"Tell me, 'ow long 'ave you remembered everyfin'?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton gaped. He didn't remember everything at all. Thomas gave a low, throaty chuckle at his confused expression. 

"Fine, you caught us. You din't live wiv 'Aytham after your mum died. We lied 'bout that. Maybe another couple little bits and bobs as well. But you been lyin', too. So tell me, 'ow long?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton closed his mouth, and nearly fell over Clipper's legs as he took a step backward. Thomas rolled his eyes, losing patience quickly.

"If you really jus' came 'ere cos you was worried, you'd not be wearin' the same uniform as Johnson's men. Mefinks you came 'ere to save yer little assassin friends an' yer daddy don't know you're back. Which is prob'ly a good fing, considerin' the state 'e was in when you up an' left. Right upset, 'e were."

"I changed my clothes because Father wanted me to go back to New York," Ratonhnhaké:ton protested. "What do you mean by 'assassin'? I did not know these men were here! All I know is that they are mad and keep stalking me!"

"Oh?" Thomas raised an eyebrow in an uncharacteristically un-lascivicious manner. "I 'spect they put a gun to yer 'ead last night, then?"

"Yes, actually," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I told Father all this already, why not ask him?"

"'Cos then I'd be leavin' you, an untrustworthy sort o' fellow in my opinion, wiv a bunch o' even more untrustworthy fellows, all alone. Don't fink I don't know you could take all my mates 'ere down in two minutes."

"I think you exaggerate," Ratonhnhaké:ton said.

"Nah, you done it before. Twice. But you know that already."

"I do not!"

"Why d'you even bother lyin'?" Thomas growled. There were faint sounds, of creaking and taps and thumps on the floor above. Footsteps, of more than one person.

"Why are you so convinced I know what you are speaking about?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded. "Fine! While I was in the Frontier, all alone, I started to remember bits and pieces about living in Kanatahséton far later than Father said I had. That is part of the reason I returned. But everything else? It is nonsense! I am not your enemy!"

"So why was you tryin' to untie 'im, then?" Thomas challenged.

"Is that not a natural reaction to seeing a person beaten and bound in a cellar?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. "I saw him, and though I recognised him as one of the madmen who had tried to take me prisoner, I felt pity and I decided to try to help. Is that so wrong?"

"I ain't an expert on these moral sorts o' matters, but I got to say, if you see a man beat up and tied in a cellar, there's prob'ly a damn good reason 'e's in that situation," Thomas snapped, pistol still aimed at Ratonhnhaké:ton's chest. 

"All right, then tell me. Why was he tied up?"

"They're Templars," Clipper interrupted, glaring at Thomas. "That's why."

Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced down, from the corner of his eye. Clipper's hands were clasped together, but Ratonhnhaké:ton could see that the ropes were loose, since he'd cut most of them. His feet were still bound, but Ratonhnhaké:ton did not doubt that Clipper could be very deadly even without proper use of his feet. Good, he'd have some form of backup when this situation inevitably went south.

"They're Assassins," Thomas said. "Tryin' to kill us lot. Me, Charlie, even yer ol' dad. You know what an assassin is, right? Someone 'at kills other people fer a livin'."

Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced again at Clipper, who looked away. Innocent people did not look away when scrutinised. So… the brotherhood were not simply assassins by name, but also by nature? Why had nobody informed him of this? Was it that they had not wanted him to run away? Or was it that they had assumed he remembered that? 

A horrible thought occurred to him. 

Had _he_ killed people?

"I… I was unaware of that," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, mouth suddenly dry with anxiety. 

"Oh? So you'll happily step away from the rat, will ya? Come upstairs an' talk this out?" Thomas' friendly grin was menacing somehow.

"Yes," Ratonhnhaké:ton stammered, after a moment. "I apologise, my actions must have seemed rather… rather traitorous. I assure you, that was not my intention."

Thomas' grin grew wider, and he seemed to relax, slowly lowering the pistol.

"Glad ta hear it. Now, you go up those stairs, an' I'll follow, an' I daresay Mister Johnson can sort everyfin' out."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, and the mercenaries stepped aside to allow him to go upstairs, though they did not lower their weapons. He took the first steps gingerly, looking back at Clipper anxiously. Clipper stared at the wall, and his expression gave nothing away. Was he angry? Or afraid? Or did he simply feel nothing at all, and his previous behaviours had simply been an act?

Only time would tell, Ratonhnhaké:ton decided. He walked slowly, knowing that no matter who was upstairs, he would be in deep trouble. Just because Thomas hadn't killed him didn't mean that nobody else was going to. Anybody else, like his father. Or William Johnson, who was currently leisurely examining the artifacts in the ground floor room, the staircases surrounded by mercenaries with raised firearms. Ratonhnhaké:ton raised his hands, to show they were empty.

William glanced up almost nonchalantly, turning to face Ratonhnhaké:ton. In his belt, half-hidden by his shawl, was a sheathed sword Ratonhnhaké:ton thought looked out of place on William. 

"Hello," he said, nervously, taking a few steps forward, into a clear space in the middle of the storeroom.

"Hello," William replied, returning the greeting. 

"This must look rather suspicious," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I assure you, it is not."

"I'm sure it isn't," William gave him a kindly smile. "If you'd be so kind as to explain?"

"Could some of the guards lower their weapons?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, hesitantly. William cocked his head to the side a little.

"No."

The last of the mercenaries from downstairs reached the ground level, Thomas standing perhaps a metre behind Ratonhnhaké:ton. Ratonhnhaké:ton swallowed, a pit of dread opening in his stomach. This… this conflict was real. He might actually get hurt, or die. He'd known that for a while, but now… now it was sinking in with alarming clarity. 

"I, uh, spoke with Father and Charles when I got here, perhaps an hour ago," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. How many times could he repeat this story without making a mistake? "I was to go straight back to New York, but he mentioned that you and Thomas were having problems with animals and I got worried and I wanted to make sure that you were all right. I thought I might be able to help, since I used to hunt for the clan back in Kanatahséton."

William's expression became… colder, somehow. 

"I see," he said, mildly. "And I suppose that Haytham forbade you from wandering about, did he?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded. Something wasn't quite right, aside from William and the guns pointed at Ratonhnhaké:ton. 

"I apologise, I should have done as he said. I simply wanted make amends for worrying you all so much last night. You are my friends and allies, and--"

"Enough," William said, quietly. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about the muskets. But you haven't proven yourself very trustworthy, and gave us all a scare last night. I can't take any chances."

"Take any chances?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded, and the feeling of dread in his stomach worsened. There was a very real chance that two men he'd though to be his friends were about to murder him. He couldn't diffuse this situation with words alone. They suspected-- no, Haytham at least knew for certain--  Ratonhnhaké:ton at least vaguely knew about the Assassin-Templar conflict.  

Ratonhnhaké:ton shut his eyes for a moment. All right. By pretending to know nothing of the conflict, he looked more suspicious in their eyes. He couldn't simply come clean-- they would know he had lied,  and even if they knew it were for good reason, Ratonhnhaké:ton would still be in a lot of trouble. Better, then, to slowly piece it together in front of them, provoke them into having to call for Haytham-- he could get answers from his father, perhaps even manipulate him somehow into letting the Assassins go. 

All right, it was an awful plan, but it was the best he had.

"Are you trying to tell me that everything they said to me was true?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, hesitantly. His heart hammered in his chest. This was never going to work, he was going to die in the next thirty seconds, wasn't he?

William glanced away momentarily, and refused to meet his gaze. 

"There's more going on than you know about, boy. I'm sure we can explain everything."

"Jenks' went t' fetch 'Aytham an' the others, did 'e?" Thomas said, just as William paused for breath. He looked irritated at the interruption.

"Yessir," a mercenary said.

"Damn…" Thomas muttered. The colour had drained from William's face.

"They escaped," William whispered, apparently to himself. "Half the guards are probably dead by now."

"Good thing John an' Ben aren't 'ere," Thomas said. "You want I should find Charlie an' 'Aytham or d'you fink they'll figure this out an' come 'ere?"

Before William could say a word, the door swung open. The mercenaries by the entrance shuffled to one side, allowing for a clearer view.

"How is it, exactly, that you three came to be so incompetent as to--" Haytham began, striding forward. He caught sight of Ratonhnhaké:ton and stopped in his tracks, clearly perturbed. Charles stood in the doorway, looking rather shamefaced.

"We caught 'im downstairs, wiv the Assassins. Said 'e spoke to you, an' you wanted 'im t' go off to New York."

Haytham nodded, mouth opening to speak. Ratonhnhaké:ton forced himself to stay calm. Now or never.

"I never lived with you at all, did I?"

The words came out as one long word, loud and rushed, and Ratonhnhaké:ton looked at the floor, not daring to look Haytham in the eyes.


	20. Chapter 20

 There was silence. Ratonhnhaké:ton could not bear to look up. The tension in the air was stifling. After a moment, Haytham's voice rang out, far too loud for the stunned silence. There was something in his voice, shock or sorrow, or maybe fury. Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't tell.

"What do you mean?"

"Regardless of what you may think, I am no fool," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. He'd ignored all the signs because he'd been so glad to have stability and some kind of place in the world. How childish. How stupid. "The constant watch you kept on me, that you refused to help me figure out my past, how you would never talk about my childhood. The guns you have pointed at me and the way I'm being treated like some kind of criminal? Those are not the actions of a father." He paused, wet his lips. "Are we even related at all?"

Haytham said nothing, for one too-long moment.

"I'm afraid the only one who can fully answer that question is your mother, and she's been dead many years," Haytham's voice was quiet. "But I'm fairly certain, and you were, too."

There was another moment of quiet, and Ratonhnhaké:ton squeezed his eyes shut and willed his heart to stop beating so fast, and did his best to calm his shallow breathing.

"The assassins told poor Connor here all kinds of tall tales. He's rather confused," William murmured. "If I may, I'd like to suggest that we--"

"Yes, yes," Haytham interrupted, irritably. Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't help but flinch when a hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him up. "Look at me, boy. I'm not going to hurt you, even if you do deserve it for disobeying me and being so damned reckless."

Haytham's eyes were cold, and his demeanour had changed from that of a mysterious, if loving father to that of someone far more dangerous. 

"I apologise," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I was just so worried, and I thought that perhaps I could help. But when I got here, all I found were people tied up in the cellar and then Thomas arrived, and started saying all kinds of strange things, and--"

"Strange things?" Haytham asked, mildly. Though his expression was thoughtful, the glance that he shot Thomas made the other man wince and avert his eyes. "Well, as you know, Thomas here does like to drink too much--"

"He said similar things to the people who kidnapped me," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "And he would not listen when I tried to explain myself."

"Oh? How strange. Don't you worry about that, I'll have a word with Thomas later," Haytham said, smoothly, ruffling Connor's hair. "Now, I'll do my best to explain things, so make sure you listen this time, eh?"

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, more harshly than he'd meant to. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, before ploughing forward. "No more of your lies and half-truths. I want to know everything. Not twisted or diluted or manipulated."

For a fraction of a moment, Haytham's face twisted into shock, but he regained his composure quickly.  His father's voice was low, threatening despite the affectionate, kindly manner in which he spoke.

"Perhaps I'm not the one who's been twisting and manipulating you."

"Perhaps you have not, but your actions thus far seem suspicious from my perspective," Ratonhnhaké:ton managed, fear knotting his stomach.

"Perhaps your perspective is wrong," Haytham answered, eyes narrow with displeasure.

"I hope that it is," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, and despite everything he'd seen and heard so far, at least part of him really did hope that this was all some kind of misunderstanding, that his father was no enemy and his friends were simply overzealous. "My first question: before I lost my memory, what was our relationship?"

Haytham raised an eyebrow. 

"We were still related, if that's what you mean," he smirked, as though trying to lighten the mood with jest. "Amnesia wouldn't change a thing like that, dear boy."

"You know what I mean."

Haytham clasped his hands behind his back, straightening his posture in the formal way which Ratonhnhaké:ton had learnt meant that his father was very much on guard, trying to seem regal and impeccably polite.

"We didn't get on."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

Haytham sighed impatiently. 

"I'm sure there are more important questions to be asking," he said, irritably. He paused a moment, as though to give Ratonhnhaké:ton a chance to choose to ask a different question instead, then continued. "We tried to kill each other twice."

Ratonhnhaké:ton opened his mouth, then shut it, utterly speechless.

What on earth could he possibly say? That they had been on such bad terms at all was shocking, but to actually attempt murder? It was unbelievable. A small part of his mind argued that it wasn't that far-fetched. Haytham had been on his guard all along, it explained the suspicion with which he had been regarded at the beginning. 

"But… you helped me. Why would--?" Ratonhnhaké:ton rubbed his eyes. It didn't make sense for Haytham to go to so much trouble for him, if they really were on such bad terms. Why would Charles even bother to take him to his father if Ratonhnhaké:ton was their enemy?

"I wanted a second chance," Haytham said. "I thought that perhaps if I helped you when you were in need, you might be so inclined as to let us try again. You might listen to me this time around."

"Listen? Why? What was I not listening to you about before?"

Haytham hesitated, briefly. Uncharacteristically. His eyes flickered over his comrades, who seemed just as-- if not more-- uncomfortable with the question.

"We have different political opinions."

"Is this about the Brotherhood and the Order?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded. If it were, then… well, everything would be true, Ratohnhaké:ton's worst suspicions confirmed. Ratonhnhaké:ton would be a murderer.

Just as Haytham gave him a curt nod and a wary look, a gunshot rang out and one of the windows exploded inward, raining glass on the floor. Thomas yelled in pain and clutched a shoulder already seeping crimson. 

Ratonhnhaké:ton cursed. Just when he was getting answers! He'd have to speak with Dobby and Stephane later, over their sense of timing. 

William barked an order, and the guards in the room scattered. Several sprinted to the basement and upper floors, while at least three took defensive positions outside the only door. Two were left in the main room, aiming at the windows near the one that had been shot through. Charles stepped awkwardly around Ratonhnhaké:ton to help Thomas staunch the bleeding in his shoulder. Haytham gave his son an exasperated glance.

"Clearly this is going to have to wait until later," he said.


	21. Chapter 21

Haytham strode to the door and flung it open, Ratonhnhaké:ton following closely behind him. 

"You," Haytham said. "Talk them down."

"Why me?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded, without thinking, regretting the question the second the sounds left his mouth. 

"They're _your_ friends!" Haytham snarled, through gritted teeth, all but physically pushing Ratonhnhaké:ton out of the door. Ratohnhaké:ton sighed and stepped out onto the grass, holding his hands up to show that he was unarmed. It wasn't Dobby and Stephane he was worried about, but the guards who had run upstairs, and were now aiming rifles out of the windows, presumably on both sides of the building. 

"Stephane? Dobby?" he called. There was silence. "Please stop firing, for now."

There was a further moment of silence, and Ratonhnhaké:ton opened his mouth again, unsure of what to say. 

"Aren't you supposed to be with Achiilles?" Dobby's voice rang out, though Dobby herself was still hidden from sight. Her voice seemed to be coming from the nearby trees. Ratonhnhaké:ton hoped that the guards couldn't hear well enough indoors to realise.

"I was worried," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. There was more silence. "Clipper and Duncan are in the cellar, Jamie too. I was trying to free them, but Hickey appeared, and then so did the others. I was trying to negotiate when you shot through the windows."

More silence. Then Stephane's voice. It sounded as though he were close to the meeting house, although he could not be seen either.

"You are sure they will not harm us if we agree to a truce?"

"No, but this is the best chance we have at getting everybody out of here alive."

Yet more silence followed. 

"All right," Dobby called, but remained hidden. Stephane also gave an affirmative moments later. 

"Thank you," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. 

"Yes, thank you," Haytham called, suddenly only a foot or two behind him. Ratonhnhaké:ton spun, startled, and froze upon seeing the pistol his father had clenched in his hand. He held it near his hip, half-pointed to the ground. A threat, both to him and to the other Assassins. Ratonhnhaké:ton swallowed. 

"I will fetch Clipper and the others from the cellar," he said. "And then we will leave. Peacefully, and without further bloodshed."

Haytham's brow creased, and he started to protest.

"We--"

"Will meet another time," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, forcefully. "For now, let us agree to a truce."

Haytham had a sour look on his face, but rolled his eyes and holstered his pistol. 

"Fine," he said, in a way that seemed somewhat caustic to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "A truce."

"I shall contact you," Ratonhnhaké:ton promised, following him inside the meeting-house, where Haytham made a gesture and Johnson barked an order in what might have been Gaelic. The remaining guards in the room stood down, and Ratonhnhaké:ton hoped that meant that the guards upstairs did, too. Hickey was still sprawled on the floor, moaning in pain, Johnson and Charles trying to stem the blood.

"We'll have to move him to the house, get water boiling," Johnson said.

"Jamie might be able to help, he's a doctor," Ratonhnhaké:ton offered, pausing a moment.

"Jamie… one of the men in the cellar?" Johnson asked. 

"…Yes," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, with a growing sense of dread. He'd not heard gunshots, nor sounds of fighting from the cellars, so surely Clipper and the others were fine, unless something had gone very wrong… 

"How many of your men went downstairs?" Charles said to Johnson, hesitantly.

Ratonhnhaké:ton's stomach dropped. If the guards were dead, the truce was good as over before it had begun.

He bounded down the stairs, fearing the worst, only to be met by the sight of Clipper quite calmly untying Jamie and Duncan, both of whom were bleary-eyed and drowsy-- they must have been drugged somehow, as part of the trap laid for Jacob. The bodies of the guards on the floor initially sent a spike of panic through his belly, but at a closer glance, they all seemed to be breathing. To be certain, Ratonhnhaké:ton checked for a pulse in the closest one, and, finding one, sighed with relief.

"They are all right," he shouted upstairs.

Clipper looked quizzically up at him, the pointed upward and whispered "Dobby? Stephane?"

"Templars. We have a truce. Come, we are leaving," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, helping Clipper slip the ropes from their comrades.

"Achilles won't be too happy…" Clipper said. 

"Achilles is never happy," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, more bitterly than he'd meant. "I need to speak with him anyway."


	22. Chapter 22

The journey back to the homestead was uneventful. Jamie and Duncan slept for most of it, whatever narcotics they had been given still very much effective. Clipper attempted conversation several times, as did Stephane, while Dobby drove the horses pulling the borrowed cart to the homestead in silence.

"Good thing your father was so nice about everything, eh?" Clipper tried, for the fifth or sixth time. Ratonhnhaké:ton did not reply. It did not seem as though Haytham was being 'nice'. Rather, it seemed like he was desperate. He'd simply waved a surviving guard over to ready a cart for the Assassins, and more or less shooed Ratonhnhaké:ton away when he'd tried to speak.

_"You said later, didn't you?" Haytham asks, irritably, then calls a lackey over to send for a doctor. He vanishes into Johnson House, and Ratonhaké:ton is left with nothing to do but sigh and help the Assassins._

"So, what's the plan for the truce?" Clipper asked.

"Hope it lasts," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, shortly.

"Oh."

There was silence for a few minutes, and Ratonhnhaké:ton tried not to think. He didn't know what he was doing. Everything had happened so quickly over the last week, even though so much had transpired… Despite the insanity of the situation he found himself in, the unbelievable revelations he'd been faced with, and the breakneck speed at which his situation had changed (and continued to change), Ratonhnhaké:ton could not help but find it familiar. Whether that comforted him or not, he did not know. All he knew was that he needed time to think, to figure out what needed to happen.

He was broken out of his reverie by a simple question from Stephane.

"What happened to your face, Clipper?"

"Oh, this?" Clipper gingerly touched a swollen eye. "Looks worse than it -ouch- is. Promise. They only really did my face, seemed to want to use me as bait."

Ratonhnhaké:ton suddenly felt very guilty. He hadn't asked Clipper he was all right, and it was his fault that Clipper had been kidnapped in the first place.

"Lucky for you," Stephane said, with what might have been a dark look in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Achilles was angry. He was the kind of man to hold a quiet, bitter rage within him, lashing out verbally with spiteful words. Ratonhnhaké:ton learnt this the hard way, as he helped Stephane carry a mostly-dead-to-the-world Jamie indoors, and onto a couch. Dobby and Clipper took Duncan, who was marginally more lucid than Jamie, and was also far lighter, being more slender and less heavily armed.

"You didn't die, I see," Achilles said, almost nonchalantly from his chair, as they passed his room. His head was tilted to the ground, away from the door.

"No, I did not," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied.

"It's amazing how lucky an empty-headed, stubborn fool can be," Achilles said, quietly enough that Ratonhnhaké:ton had trouble hearing.

"I am none of those things!" Ratonhnhaké:ton said, indignantly, stopping in his tracks. Stephane glanced at him and sighed, also stopping.

"Of course you're not. That's why you disobeyed a direct order from me, and went running back to that heartless fanatic of father of yours without a second thought as to what would become of us if you died."

"You seem to have been carrying just fine without me. And Haytham is not heartless."

"I see! How mistaken I have been, in all the years I have known the man, and despite all the tragedies I have suffered because of him. Thank you deeming to correct me, in all your knowledge and wisdom." Achilles' tone was cruel and mocking, and Ratonhnhaké:ton gritted his teeth. "And how perceptive you are, to see what we have not- that the Homestead does not need you, and neither does our Brotherhood, with out incredible numbers of but six novices and one elderly mentor. Next, you'll tell me that the Aquila and your merchant business could run just fine without the esteemed Captain Kenway!"

"I-"

"In fact, if that's how you really feel, why are you here, Connor? To spite an old man? Why not just up and leave, and go back to that father of yours? You clearly find him better company, running off like that at the first opportunity."

"It wasn't like that!" Ratonhnhaké:ton protested. "I just wanted to help Clipper!"

"Help him better than four Assassins? Why, I underestimated your abilities as a single person. Forgive me."

"I-" Ratonhnhaké:ton started, about to hotly retort something about actually caring about the others, unlike Achilles himself, when Stephane interrupted them both.

"If I could add something to your discussion?" he asked, then carried on without waiting for a reply. "It was an elaborate trap. Clipper was beaten about the face and tied up, and harmed little further. Given the sheer number of guards and low-level Templars around, as well as the layout of the building he was in, it is obvious that the Grand Master and the others had hoped to ensnare not just we four, but Jacob as well."

Stephane paused for a moment before continuing.

"All we assassins were captured, and incapacitated in some way. Dobby and I approached the house and were quickly surrounded, while Duncan and Jamie approached the meeting-houses and were drugged. Why not simply kill us? I believe that they wanted to get Jacob, too. Or even yourself, Achilles. Kenway knows you well enough to realise that you would not allow Ratonhnhaké:ton out of the safety of the Homestead after such a long and painful absence. They wanted us out of the way, and they did not expect Connor himself to show up, or at least not so soon."

Achilles' eyes lit up in understanding, although he still seemed tense, and his mouth was still set in an angry line.

"See?" Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "It was a good thing I left. And now we have a truce with the Templars, and all members of the Brotherhood alive and well."

Achilles was silent for a moment, and Ratonhnhaké:ton had a terrible feeling that he had broken some unspoken rule.

"'Well' is something of an overstatement, considering your condition and Clipper's injuries," Achilles said, coldly.

Ratonhnhaké:ton opened his mouth again, and Stephane cut in again.

"My arms are starting to hurt, why don't we lay Jamie down?"

Jamie groaned, and made some incomprehensible noise that was presumably an agreement. Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, and started walking in silence. As they trudged up the stairs- fortunately they were wide enough to accommodate three men- Stephane glared at Ratonhnhaké:ton.

"I think you could barely have offended Achilles more if you tried," he said. "You should apologise when he calms down."

"I am the one who should be offended," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, sullenly.

"In all fairness, you haven't spent the last two months believing that the closest thing you have to a son is dead."

"Perhaps not, but I have spent the last two months without a memory."

"I know you've been through a lot, Connor. Really, I do. But I did not risk my life to bring you back so that you and Achilles could be at each other's throats constantly. I did it because I believe in the Creed and the work the two of you have done to free this land."

Ratonhnhaké:ton resisted the urge to laugh as they crossed the threshold of the spare room, which had several cots and couches along the walls. They lowered Jamie onto a comfortable-looking one.

"Work? You mean killing people."

"Only those that will not change," Stephane said, and there was a pleading tone in his voice. "Your father has killed people, too."

"I had guessed as much," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, with more venom in his voice than he had intended. "And yet they are so different, and so evil compared to us."

"Connor, you must understand… what your father and his friends want… it is not true peace. It is a facade held in place with illusions and cruelty."

Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed.

"I know. I am simply tired. I need to think."

Stephane nodded, biting his lip, and he picked up a blanket from a nearby couch, bundled it up, and pushed it under Jamie's head

"Of course, of course."

As Ratonhnhaké:ton left the room, he could feel Stephane's eyes following him.


End file.
